


Drive

by proantagonist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BFFs Saving the Day, Clubbing, Dancing, Falling In Love, Feels, First Date, Fluff, Irresponsible figure skaters acting irresponsibly, Late night talks, M/M, Phichit and Christophe as wingmen, Road Trips, Street food, drunk yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:30:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proantagonist/pseuds/proantagonist
Summary: A story in which two sets of best friends road trip across America together.Yuuri remembers the Sochi Grand Prix banquet. He knows what he had the audacity to ask his idol, but that doesn’t make it any less confusing when Victor Nikiforov shows up at Nationals two weeks later with a bouquet of roses in hand and a smile that doesn’t fool anyone.Victor has lost his drive and should be prepping for the European Championship instead of flying to Japan on a whim. After a crushing defeat at Nationals, Yuuri is in the midst of a crisis himself. Good thing they have their best friends – Phichit and Christophe – at their sides to keep them from falling apart. (And to encourage them in the right direction.)When Victor learns Yuuri must return to Detroit to finish college, he makes a rash decision to come to America with him. But why rush the journey? There’s more than a week before classes start, dual existential crises to escape, and a budding romance to nurture.Time for a road trip.





	1. Sochi

**Author's Note:**

> I love road trip fics. While this one might start out a bit somber, it’s only because I want the happiness to shine brighter in future chapters.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [borntomake](http://borntomake.tumblr.com/). I also have another YOI fanfic called [Winter Song](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8596987/chapters/19715377) if you’d like to check that out.

**Sochi, Russia**

“Drink.”

Yuuri closes his eyes and tilts his head back, aware of a warm hand supporting the base of his neck and the hard ring of plastic at his lips. The bottled water is a shock of cold to his parched throat, and he almost sputters before the mechanics of swallowing resurface in his memory. Behind his closed eyes, the world spins—darkness zigzagged with shifting rainbows. The _swoosh_ of cars on a nearby street clue him in that he’s outside, sitting on a concrete curb that’s much colder than his brain is currently capable of registering at the moment.

He’s aware of the excessive amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, but there’s little he can do to stop the raging flood now. The muscles in his body are loose but burn from overexertion, and goosebumps prickle his arms and legs. As soon as he swallows and the icy water hits his stomach, his teeth start chattering, but he doesn’t mind one bit. The cold feels _good_ , especially when his whole body is burning like it’s been set on fire.

When the bottle of water is lowered by an unseen hand, Yuuri wipes his mouth and opens his eyes. Victor Nikiforov is kneeling in front of him wearing an iron gray suit and tie, as well as a patient smile that Yuuri would very much like to lick right off his face. It should be illegal to be that damn pretty.

Victor proffers the water again, beads of condensation streaking down the cheap plastic to where his distractingly attractive fingers grip the bottle. “How do you feel now?”

Yuuri giggles, then hiccups.

As if by magic, Christophe Giacometti’s face appears over Victor’s right shoulder. There’s a bright light shining behind them both, outlining their bodies in a silvery glow. “Don’t let him drink too much, too fast. He’ll get sick.”

Victor turns his head, his long, sloping nose profiled against the light. “What do you suggest?”

“A walk maybe? That should sober him up.” Christophe leans in, one hand placed on Victor’s shoulder to help him balance. “Yuuri, do you think you can walk? Though I suppose if you can pole-dance like _that_ , walking shouldn’t be a problem...”

“ _Yes_ ,” Yuuri says, enunciating the word very clearly. They seem to suspect he’s drunk, so of course, he has to prove them wrong. “I know how to walk, _Chris_. I’ll have you know I’ve been walking for two...f-for...for lots of years.”

On second thought, perhaps he should keep his mouth shut.

Victor lets out a breathy chuckle, which freezes in the air between them and dissipates overhead. “Just when I think you can’t get any cuter,” he says as he screws the lid back onto the water bottle.

Yuuri blinks once and goes quiet, staring at the man in front of him that can’t possibly be real.

“Come on,” Victor says to Chris. “Let’s get him some fresh air.”

“Any idea what he did with his pants?” Christophe says.

“Oh.” Victor taps a finger to his lips while he inspects Yuuri’s bare legs. “Hmm.”

Yuuri hadn’t even been aware that he misplaced his pants until Christophe tracks them down in the banquet hall. He’s still staring, transfixed, while the most decorated figure skater in history helps him with his zipper.

Victor Nikiforov doesn’t look like he does in magazines.

He’s not Photoshopped and airbrushed to perfection, and for some reason, the flaws make him impossibly more attractive. He’s a real person. Three-dimensional flesh and bone. Cheeks sprinkled with freckles. Lower teeth slightly out of line. Creases beside his eyes when he laughs.

After both men haul Yuuri to his feet, throw a coat over his shoulders that he doesn’t recognize, and get him walking down the sidewalk leading away from the hotel, he starts to become more aware of his surroundings. All around them, the world is full of snow and concrete. Sochi might be located in southern Russia, but tonight it is _freezing_. Low-hanging clouds mute the sky overhead, and given the lateness of the hour, the street is near devoid of both cars and pedestrians. Endless rows of streetlights are stacked ahead of them, block after block of red and green burning images onto Yuuri’s retinas, even when he blinks and looks away from the glare.

Christophe and Victor laugh and joke as they walk, maintaining an easy banter that makes the depth of their friendship apparent. Victor has his arm slung around Yuuri’s shoulder, and Christophe aims a thoughtful glance in their direction more than once, his lips curled into an amused smirk. Yuuri says nothing, too distracted by the man with the Russian accent that sounds so different in person than it does in television interviews.

There’s a heat to Victor Nikiforov.

A realness. A pulse. A moving mouth that freezes the air around it and shifting shadows that cut across his face and neck. Streetlights change color in the reflection of his eyes, and his hair glows silver in place of the missing moon in the sky. The way he says Yuuri’s name is borderline obscene. Victor’s lips first form the ‘u’ like he’s going in for a kiss before he flicks the ‘r’ with his tongue.

And he smells good.

Like. Really, really fucking good.

Some kind of cologne or perfume or _something_ that stirs up Yuuri’s senses into a near frenzy and makes him feel even more intoxicated than before. Driftwood, sage, sea salt. Victor smells like a winter morning by the sea. Like the hot breath of a lover penetrating through the coarse threads of a sweater.

Yuuri has no idea where he is—bleary-eyed and drunk out of his mind, lost somewhere on the empty streets of Sochi in the middle of the night with two men he barely knows. But under the weight of Victor’s arm, he feels strangely safe. Like he’s home, even though Yuuri can’t remember where home is anymore. Not Japan. Not Detroit. Not anywhere now...except for maybe this stretch of sidewalk in front of him. The alcohol has wiped away both past and present, leaving only this feeling of flying and falling at the same time. He feels like he’s trapped in a nightmare and a dream come true all at once.

Christophe and Victor lead him along for more than an hour, making Yuuri drink the full bottle of water before stopping to buy him a strong cup of coffee. The first sip of it turns his stomach, but the smell is nice and sharp. He holds it without drinking and lets the scent rouse his senses.

He’s sitting on the curb again, this time in front of a coffee shop he’s never seen in his life, with the Grand Prix Final gold and silver medalists standing around him. Their three lone shadows paint the sidewalk beneath a streetlamp, hands buried in their pockets to ward off the cold. Unlike Christophe, Victor isn’t wearing a coat over his suit, and Yuuri flushes when he realizes the heavy, beige overcoat around his shoulders bears a familiar scent.

“I don’t know how to explain it, Chris,” Victor says. “It’s like I’ve lost the plot, I guess.”

Christophe mutters something in French that sounds suspiciously like an expletive. “You are unbelievable, you know that? You beat me yesterday by more than thirty points, yet claim you feel uninspired. Does your competition _bore_ you, Victor?”

“It’s not like that,” Victor says, his accented voice softer than before.

Yuuri watches his childhood idol press his lips together and go quiet, the confident angle of his chin falling almost to his chest, silver hair hiding his eyes in a mask of shadow. Yuuri squeezes his own eyes shut and opens them again, trying to focus in on the conversation. It sounds important, but his befuddled mind prevents him from putting it into context.

“What you need is to get out of your head,” Christophe says. “Let loose more. Live a little, just like you did tonight at the banquet. I didn’t realize it until I saw it...but I haven’t seen you smile like that in years. When did your smiles become so _fake_?”

Silence.

A chill journeys up the length of Yuuri’s spine. He’s kept quiet since they left the hotel behind. The two men are aware that he’s listening to every word they say, but that hasn’t stopped him from feeling like an eavesdropper.

The Victor Nikiforov standing before him is not the one Yuuri knows from the television screen or the posters on his wall. There’s something about the way those winter blue eyes scan the cityscape ahead of them that troubles Yuuri. Something feels off, and he has the strangest inkling that he’s learned someone’s secret that they meant to keep private.

It’s not until an empty city bus comes rumbling by on the street, leaving a choking stream of exhaust in its wake, that Victor snaps out of his daze. “Ready to go back? I’m tired.”

Christophe sighs. “You don’t have to get all prickly with me. I’ll shut up. I just care about you, you great idiot.”

“I know, Chris. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

Together, they each place a hand beneath Yuuri’s arms and help him to his feet. He glances back at the cup of coffee he left abandoned on the sidewalk but doesn’t open his mouth to make mention of it. He can feel himself sobering up, and his confidence is draining away just as quickly. He’s still drunk, but his mind has broken free of the fog, leaving him in a state of mute astonishment over the events of that evening.

A crosswalk signals that it’s unsafe to traverse the street ahead of them, but Yuuri is still too dazed to make sense of the flashing red lights. He keeps walking until Victor’s hand closes around his and pulls back to make him stop. A moment after Yuuri’s toes come to a halt an inch from the curb, a car blazes past them on the street, the muffled thump of the radio spilling out into the night air as he tears around the corner. Victor mutters an admonishment in Russian at the driver.

Yuuri stops breathing. He could have easily gotten hit by that car, but even seeing it streak past him isn’t what captured his attention.

Victor Nikiforov is holding his hand.

Yuuri counts every thump of his heart, his lungs beginning to burn from the strain of disuse while he waits for Victor to let go. Surely he will once the crosswalk changes and allows them to pass. But when the time comes to cross the street, Victor only laces his fingers in between his to maintain a better hold on them. Yuuri releases the breath he was holding all in a rush.

“Are you cold?” Victor asks, squeezing his hand. “You feel half-frozen.”

Which makes no sense at all because Yuuri feels like flames are licking up his insides. “S-sorry.”

Victor lets out that quiet chuckle again—the one with the rumbling texture that slips all over Yuuri’s body and underneath his clothes. Victor puts his mouth close to his ear and says, “I’m teasing you, Yuuri. I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

Yuuri’s stomach drops to the sidewalk.

He’s still too drunk to fully comprehend what’s happening, but with each passing moment, he’s finally beginning to understand that it’s _real_. This isn’t a fantasy his alcohol-addled mind has dreamed up. Victor Nikiforov is standing next to him, and he isn’t just holding Yuuri’s hand. He’s _flirting_ with him, and Yuuri has absolutely no idea why or what to do about it.

Christophe laughs and kicks a pebble out of his path. “Why do I suddenly feel like the third wheel? So it begins.”

In time, they return to the hotel, and Yuuri spends an embarrassing five minutes in the lobby trying to remember what floor his room is on. He’s found his card key in his wallet but has no idea what room it might open. The glare of the hotel lights is jarring to his senses, and he’s having trouble focusing his thoughts again, especially with Victor’s scent wafting up from the coat draped across his shoulders and the man himself standing before him, fingers still tangled up with his own. Eventually, Christophe goes to speak with the concierge, who helps them out by looking Yuuri’s room number up in the hotel computer.

“Feeling better?” Victor asks him in the elevator, his voice soft enough to make Yuuri want to rest his face against the man’s chest and spend the night sleeping there.

And suddenly, Yuuri is blinking back tears.

Because no. He doesn’t feel better.

He’s sobering up, and it’s quite possibly the worst feeling he’s ever known. Because his dog is still dead, and there’s nothing he can do to take back the five years he went without going to see him. And it’s not just Vicchan. He’s neglected his family and friendships as well.

And for what? To throw himself at a goal he just met with spectacular failure, and all because he was too mentally weak to handle the pressure.

He wants to be drunk again. To laugh and dance and forget about the nightmare of the Grand Prix Final weekend. He wants to erase the ache in his bruised knees from the many hard falls he took on the ice and forget that more than 100 points separate his score from Victor Nikiforov’s. But more than anything, Yuuri wants to disappear because he _does not_ want his idol to see him like this. This is not the way he intended to make Victor remember his name.

As he watches Yuuri’s silent struggle with his emotions, Victor’s smile begins to unravel along the edges. “Are you all right?”

The question attracts Christophe’s attention as well, and suddenly both men are staring hard at Yuuri’s face, which is the last place he wants them to look.

Without hesitation, Yuuri nods with all the vigor he can manage and silently wills the elevator to deliver him to the solitude of his room already. He can’t look at Victor anymore because he knows if he does, the tears are going to spill over. He’s embarrassed himself enough in front of this man this weekend—first on the ice, then at the banquet. The least he can do is try not to _cry_ in front of him, too.

The elevator saves him from further questioning by arriving at his floor, and Yuuri steps through the doors as soon as they part and allow him to pass. He thinks Victor might let go of his hand then, but that’s not what happens. Instead, he follows Yuuri out into the hallway, thumb absently stroking the skin of his hand, inspiring goosebumps to erupt all over his body.

“I’m two floors up,” Christophe calls to them from the elevator. He’s wearing that knowing smirk again as he watches them. “See you in the morning, Victor. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That’s not saying much,” Victor mutters after the elevator doors close behind them. He winks at Yuuri and flashes that boyish smile he often saves for the cameras. “Don’t worry. I just want to bid you a proper goodnight.”

If not for Victor, Yuuri would have walked straight past his own hotel room without realizing his mistake. He’s lost in an absolute daze and has no idea what a ‘proper goodnight’ entails, though his imagination is more than happy to make suggestions. It feeds him images of Victor pressing him up against the door, sliding a thigh between Yuuri’s, tilting his chin up to inspect the panting spread of his lips...

Instead, Victor tugs on Yuuri’s hand to let him know they’ve arrived at his room and says, “Can I see you again?”

The question shocks the emotion right out of Yuuri. He blinks several times, clearing his vision of excess moisture, and finally meets Victor’s eyes. The irises are every bit as blue and nuanced as jasper. He’s not as tall as Yuuri thought he might be, but Victor’s presence is larger than life. Impossible to ignore, filling every atom of space. Even the air Yuuri breathes in and holds in his lungs.

“I had fun dancing with you tonight,” Victor continues, gazing at him through the fall of his bangs. He steps a little closer, still holding Yuuri’s hand. “Maybe Chris is right, and that kind of thing is what I’ve been missing all along. We should do it again sometime.”

Yuuri stares at him, incapable of looking at anything else. “How?”

It’s an unwelcome dose of reality, and the hope drains right out of Victor’s face. He laughs without humor and says, “A fair point. I guess we both have more competitions coming up soon, don’t we? Not to mention the distance. There’s always something getting in the way...”

There’s that look darkening Victor’s expression again. The one Yuuri isn’t sure he’s supposed to see. He has the strangest feeling that Victor wouldn’t be talking like this if he thought Yuuri was sober. There’s no reason for Victor to share these things with him. They’re strangers. They barely know each other.

“I’ll see you at Worlds, then?” Victor says.

Yuuri wants to laugh—and also maybe break down and cry.

It’s difficult to swallow the sudden lump in his throat and come up with a response. There’s no way he’s going to make it to the World Championship. Not if he can’t stop himself from sliding deeper and deeper into this rut. He’s been dying to meet this man on the same playing field for more than half his life, and now all he wants to do is pull his hand free, escape into his hotel room, and shut the door in Victor Nikiforov’s picture perfect face.

But that’s unnecessarily harsh. Victor hasn’t done anything to deserve that, except for maybe inspiring Yuuri to set impossible goals for himself when he doesn’t possess the talent needed to achieve them. That’s his own fault, though. He’s the one who decided to try to climb Victor’s pedestal without any regard for how much it would hurt when he came crashing back down again.

Yuuri removes Victor’s overcoat from around his shoulders, already mourning the loss of its comforting scent and weight, and holds it out to its owner. “Goodnight,” Yuuri says, choosing not to answer the question. He doesn’t have the willpower anymore to make promises he can’t possibly hope to keep. “And congratulations on your win.”

Victor’s expression is indecipherable as he takes his overcoat and folds it over one arm. It’s the same look he gave Yuuri last night during their brief encounter after the conclusion of the Free Skate event, when he was so humiliated by his defeat that he couldn’t even accept the offer of a commemorative photo with someone he’s looked up to for more than half his life.

The image of Victor standing there, watching Yuuri like he’s a riddle he can’t decipher as he goes inside his empty hotel room and closes the door, is something he’s not going to forget for the rest of his life.

It isn’t supposed to happen like this.

Alone at last with nothing but the memory of a drunken dance and warm fingers sliding so perfectly between his own, Yuuri rests his back against the door and thinks to himself, _That’s the last time I’m ever going to see him_.

 

* * *

 

**Two Weeks Later - Sapporo, Japan**

“Yuuri,” Phichit says. “I need to tell you something.”

Yuuri barely registers the words. He wipes his nose and leans down to tug ruthlessly at the double-knotted lace of his right skate. His body aches all over, almost badly enough to distract him from the shame twisting his insides into knots. The legs of his Free Skate outfit are wet from his many falls on the ice, and there’s even a little tear at the inseam near his knee. He wants nothing more than to strip the whole thing off and toss the garment in the trash where it belongs.

It’s not like there’s any point in keeping it. His entire skating season has just ended in a humiliating display of incompetence in front of his own countrymen. So much for Japan’s Ace redeeming himself at Nationals after coming in last at the Sochi Grand Prix Final...

Yuuri pulls off his skate and tosses it away without regard for where it lands.

Phichit’s dark-eyed gaze softens as he watches. Reaching out, he places a hand on his best friend’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze.

Yuuri’s sitting on a bench in the locker room of the Makomanai Ice Arena, with stacks of empty lockers in front of him and the smell of dirty hockey jerseys forever tainting the air. The florescent lights overhead buzz and flicker, one of the bulbs in need of replacement. The sound of thousands of voices cheering on his competitors in the main hall echoes down to this empty room. It’s just the two of them there with Yuuri’s open bag spilling its contents onto the linoleum floor between them. He’s tempted to kick it across the room.

Though there’s comfort to be found in the shadow of his best friend, who stands over him wearing a look of concern, Yuuri wishes Phichit would just leave him alone. He has no reason to be here in Japan except as moral support he didn’t ask for. Phichit knows better than anyone that Yuuri isn’t doing well—not by a long shot—and he came to Nationals to do what he could to keep his best friend from falling to pieces during the competition. Celestino had encouraged it, hoping Phichit’s presence would lift Yuuri’s spirits and bolster his performance in a way his coach felt he had failed to do in Sochi. But as it turned out, it was just a wasted plane ticket.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says again. “Victor Nikiforov is here.”

Yuuri freezes, his left skate slipping from his fingers before it clatters to the ground, forgotten. “What? No, he’s not.”

Of course, he isn’t. The statement doesn’t make any sense. Not only are the Russian Figure Skating Championships still taking place half a continent away, but this is _Victor Nikiforov_ they’re talking about. Why would the living legend of skating come here to see a lowly domestic competition in Yuuri’s home country?

It’s laughable—and Yuuri doesn’t appreciate being laughed at.

“No, actually he kinda sorta is,” Phichit says. “It’s all over the internet. Look.”

He holds out his cell phone, which is already open to Christophe Giacometti’s Instagram. Yuuri takes the phone in hand and squints down at the screen, but even with his glasses on, he can’t seem to wrap his mind around what he sees there.

It’s a picture of Christophe in street clothes and a pair of circular glasses on his face, shoulder to shoulder with none other than Victor Nikiforov, who has an extravagant bouquet of blue roses tucked under one arm. They’re both smiling and standing in a sea of faces, which could very well be an arena crowd. Those banners in the background certainly look familiar, but the real clincher is that Christophe has captioned the picture with: _In Sapporo with my not-famous-at-all best friend, checking out the competition._

As Yuuri stares down at the silver-headed man in the picture, his mind is suddenly filled with the memory of dancing. Of laughter and the clink of crystal glasses filled with golden bubbles and the feel of a strong hand at his waist.

Though he’s done his best to avoid thinking about the embarrassing spectacle he made at the banquet, there is one mental image he hasn’t been able to erase from his mind these past two weeks—and it’s the look Victor wore right before Yuuri closed his hotel room door in his face. It’s the nagging suspicion that Yuuri wasn’t the only one hurting that night.

He hasn’t followed the Russian Championship results as closely as he has in past years. The event is normally spread out over a number of days, and it’s possible Victor’s two performances are already behind him. But all the same, Yuuri still can’t fathom what he might be doing in Japan.

Lips parted in dismay, Yuuri looks up at his best friend but can’t seem to speak. His pulse has started to accelerate and tumble out of control, which demands his breathing pick up speed as well to keep up with the demand for oxygen. And just like that, he’s on the brink of hyperventilating.

Victor Nikiforov _can’t_ be here.

That would mean he _saw_ Yuuri’s Free Skate.

Yuuri has just fallen half a dozen times in front of thousands of people, but now all he cares about is that Victor Nikiforov was one of them. He _saw_ , and the very idea makes Yuuri want to hide his face in his hands and wink out of existence entirely.

Phichit is on his knees at once and grips his friend’s upper arms to snap him out of the moment of panic. “ _Hey_. Stop that. Whatever it is you’re thinking about, it’s not true.”

How can he know what Yuuri’s thinking? Phichit might be a fiercely loyal friend—the best he’s ever had, in fact—but he isn’t psychic. He doesn’t even know what happened with Victor in Sochi. Yuuri has been far too embarrassed to speak a word about it.

“He’s just a _person_ , Yuuri,” Phichit says, revealing himself to be a bit psychic after all—or just that knowledgeable of the common twists and turns of his friend’s mind. “And this is just one competition. I know it hurts when your performance falls short of what you know you’re capable of, but you need to stop and breathe and remember that one stupid competition doesn’t _mean_ anything. You are worth so much more than a performance, Yuuri.”

Even though the words of comfort aren’t really sinking in, Yuuri nods anyway and forces himself to slow his breathing back down. He doesn’t want his friend to worry about him falling apart. That’s already happening and shows no sign of stopping, but that doesn’t mean Phichit has to get caught up in it. Yuuri tries his best to stuff the emotion down, if only for the sake of his friend. He can fall to pieces later when he’s by himself.

Phichit plucks his phone out of Yuuri’s hands and glances down at the picture again. “I wonder why he’s here? And with Christophe Giacometti, too. That’s so random.”

Not as random as Phichit might think. “H-he might be here for me.”

Puzzled by the remark, Phichit blinks up at him with his huge, dark brown eyes.

“Something happened in Sochi,” Yuuri explains, his breathing still uneven. “Something I didn’t tell you about.”

“You mean...with Victor?”

Before the conversation can proceed any further, they’re interrupted by the sound of footfalls coming down the hallway. Leather soles on linoleum. Laughter echoes through the sterile surfaces of the corridor, growing louder by the second. “I’ve never met anyone with such a bad sense of direction,” a familiar voice laments. “I feel like we’re walking in circles.”

“That’s because it’s a circular building, Chris,” says another voice. “How hard can it be to find a locker room?”

And this second voice isn’t just familiar. It’s famous.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Phichit says. “Is that who I think it is?”

There’s no time to answer the question.

“Yuuri!” Christophe calls, appearing at the open door of the locker room with his arms spread wide. He’s dressed in a sweater the color of wine with a relaxed pair of jeans belted to his trim hips and a black jacket draped over one arm. His sun-kissed hair gleams golden in the harsh, artificial light. “We tried to catch you after your performance, but you were too quick for us. Luckily, we sweet-talked our way past security.”

Yuuri’s mouth has long since fallen open, but now his eyes have widened to match—because after Christophe’s towering, six-foot-tall form makes it through the door, someone else follows him into the locker room.

And sucks all the air out in the process.

Arctic blue eyes lock with Yuuri’s and penetrate right into his mind.

Victor Nikiforov wears a double-breasted peacoat and a stylish green scarf bundled around his neck. It’s a much more casual look than the designer suit he’d worn in Sochi, but he still looks photoshoot ready, with his glossy lips, effortless grace, and silver bangs skimming the rise his cheekbone. He has the same bouquet of blue roses in hand as the one seen on Instagram, and the vivid color of their petals make his already penetrating eyes pierce that much deeper into Yuuri’s awareness.

“Hi,” Victor says—as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to appear out of nowhere in a country that’s not his own.

There’s a slight strain in those striking blue eyes—easy to miss, a whisper of desperation or loneliness or some other emotion Yuuri can’t place—but it’s gone in a flash and replaced instead with a brilliant smile.

“Victor,” Yuuri says. “What are you doing here?”

Everything else in the room has fallen away during this exchange, leaving him only vaguely aware when Christophe approaches Phichit and holds his hand out in greeting. “Hi there,” Christophe says. “I’m Chris, the third wheel in this relationship. I guess that makes you the fourth.”

Rising from his kneeling position in front of Yuuri, Phichit grins and shakes Christophe’s hand. “Phichit Chulanont—fourth wheel, at your service. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to explain what’s going on, would you? My friend suddenly looks a little preoccupied.”

Off to their right, Yuuri has flushed a deep shade of red as he’s presented with a beautifully arranged bouquet of blue roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to ask you to suspend judgment about the realism of Phichit and Christophe’s presence in this story, particularly when they have their own competitions to worry about. Pretend all the dates work out juuuust right to make it possible—because isn’t it nice to have the BFFs there?
> 
> Stay tuned for more figure skaters behaving irresponsibly. If you’re enjoying the story, please leave a comment or hit the kudos button. Thanks for reading!


	2. Sapporo - part 1

“Yuuri, you need to relax.”

Phichit sits perched on the foot of the narrow hotel room bed, alternating between thumbing through emails on his phone and watching his best friend as he staggers about the room in a near panic. Their shared hotel room is nicely decorated but small in size, with barely enough room to accommodate two twin beds, much less their intended occupants. Especially when one of them can’t seem to stop pacing from one end of the room to the other.

Not for the first time on this trip, Phichit is thankful he’s come to Japan in support of his best friend.

Yuuri isn’t doing well.

His pacing has ceased for the moment, and he’s come to a halt over his suitcase, blinking down at its contents without really seeing them. City lights twinkle all around him from behind, glittering through the window at the far end of the room. The lamp on the table between the beds casts a golden glare onto his glasses.

The corners of Yuuri’s mouth never seem to do anything but stretch downward anymore. Something is wrong, and Phichit suspects his friend has only revealed a fraction of what’s going on. The rest is all trapped inside, swirling around in his thoughts and deafening his ears to any other input. It’s a negative feedback loop, and all Phichit knows is he’s now a fan of Victor Nikiforov simply because his unexpected arrival has shocked Yuuri out of a terrible downward tailspin. He’s still falling, only now his eyes aren’t glazed over with near-despondent resignation.

They’ve returned to the hotel to allow Yuuri to take a post-competition shower, but Victor and Christophe are waiting at the bar downstairs. The four of them have plans to go out tonight—first dinner and then if all goes well, a night on the town afterward. Yuuri held it together well enough back in the arena locker room simply because there were three other people there to keep the conversation going, but as soon as he and Phichit found themselves alone again, it quickly became apparent that he isn’t as comfortable with the idea of socializing with his idol as one might think.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says again because his friend never seems to hear him anymore.

“I don’t want to relax.” Yuuri rakes his fingers back through his damp, freshly-washed hair. “I want to climb down the fire escape and continue not relaxing on the first flight back to Detroit.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but our plane tickets home aren’t until tomorrow afternoon. You’re fresh out of luck.”

“What is he _doing_ here, Phichit? I’m freaking out.”

Without waiting for a response, Yuuri goes into the bathroom for the eightieth time in search of something he didn’t find the first seventy-nine visits. A moment later, he comes back into the bedroom with empty hands.

Phichit’s dark eyes dance with amusement.

For someone who keeps protesting having dinner with his idol, Yuuri sure has gotten dressed in a hurry. He looks good, too—wearing black slacks and a vivid blue, button-down shirt he had to borrow from Phichit because he neglected to pack anything other than casualwear. The shirt is more fitted on Yuuri, the fabric stretching across the curves of his chest before gathering attractively at his waist. He’s put on a few pounds in the last two weeks thanks to some nervous eating habits, but the weight looks good on him, rounding out his cheeks (all four of them) with a bit of padding.

“Obviously, he likes you,” Phichit says, eyeing the impressive bouquet of blue roses on the table by the window. They’ve filled the whole room with an intoxicating fragrance. “That must have been some pole-dance.”

Yuuri slides his glasses up to his forehead and covers his bare face with both hands. “He’s never _met me_. Victor’s met drunk, stripper Yuuri. That’s who he probably came here expecting to see.”

“I mean, to be fair—drunk, stripper Yuuri is a pretty fun guy. Not that sober, fully-clothed Yuuri isn’t, but you’re definitely memorable when you let loose.”

“You’re not helping.”

Phichit flashes a grin and shuts off his phone. “Who says I was trying to help? If he’s never met the real Yuuri before, then let’s go introduce you to him. Ready to go downstairs?”

“ _No_.”

“Come on.” Phichit gets to his feet and slides his cell phone into the back pocket of his pants. “You look great.”

Yuuri pulls his hands away from his face, allowing his glasses to settle back down into place on his nose. His eyebrows are drawn together and lifted in the middle in a look of vulnerability that sends an ache deep into Phichit’s heart. It’s a small glimpse of the torment going on inside Yuuri’s mind, and Phichit wants it _gone_. He hates seeing his best friend like this.

Even though Yuuri won’t say the words, they’re easy enough to discern. _Why did it have to be tonight? Of all the times for him to see me skate, it’s the weekend I self-destruct._

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, his tone no longer teasing. “Victor’s here because he wants to be. Look, I know you’re not feeling your best right now and you don’t like people seeing you like that—but maybe it’s a good thing he and Chris showed up tonight. I think what you need right now is a little fun. A drink and a laugh and a good time with some new friends. We need to get your head in a better place.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything. His mouth is drawn into that downward curve again. He doesn’t like it when people get a good read on him.

“Yuuri,” Phichit says, using his best friend’s name _yet_ _again_ because he’s still not listening. “Look at me because this is important. _Victor Nikiforov is here_. He got on an airplane for hours and hours just to come see you tonight. And he brought you flowers and wants to have dinner with you. Take a deep breath and let that sink in—because that’s pretty amazing, if you ask me.”

The words take time to register.

But slowly—as if touched by magic—a glimmer of a smile first finds Yuuri’s eyes before bringing light to the rest of his face. His eyes start to shine with hushed amazement, and the set of his mouth softens, the corners lifting into something cautious but neutral. It’s like watching a candle being lit after months of disuse—just a small flame clinging to a used-up nub of a wick.

“Victor Nikiforov is here,” Phichit says again, “and if you miss this chance, you are never going to forgive yourself.”

Taking in a deep breath, Yuuri presses his hand to his heart for a moment, as if he’s suddenly worried it might lift right out of his chest and float away. “All right,” he says eventually, his voice quiet but resolved. His shadow stands a bit straighter where it’s painted on the wall. “I’m ready. Let’s go downstairs.”

Phichit’s own posture sags as he blows out a breath of relief. “ _God_. Can you imagine if I hadn’t been here in Japan when Victor showed up, all unexpected like that? You probably would have hit the wall, running away so fast, and then shut yourself up in your room all night without even talking to him. _You’re welcome_ for me being the best friend ever.”

 

* * *

 

The hotel bar is a noisy affair, filled with traveling businessmen and a sprinkling of tourists who haven’t yet mustered up the courage to leave the comfort of home-base. The only locals in sight are either serving drinks behind the bar or walking the brightly-lit city streets outside. The décor is clean and modern, with a giant mirror behind the bar and low-hanging lights dimmed to set the mood.

Christophe is enjoying himself, sitting in a stool with one foot resting on the ground and sipping a Japanese beer. (Sapporo Black Label, of course—because if he’s going to be a tourist, then he’s _going to be a tourist_ , thank you very much.)

Victor, meanwhile, sits on the stool next to him with his own beer almost reduced to nothing but foam at the bottom of his glass. He’s staring at himself in the mirror with his bangs swept back from his forehead, lifting and lowering his chin so he can see his reflection at different angles. Christophe barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “You realize your constant preening only makes your hair thinner, right?”

Victor lets his bangs fall back into place and turns to give Christophe a look of barely-contained alarm. “It does not. You’re lying.” And then he looks in the mirror again just to make sure nothing has changed in the last three seconds.

“Stop fussing,” Christophe says. “You’re still pretty. I’m sure Yuuri will like what he sees.”

There’s a moment of silence, filled only by the clink of glassware and the murmur of other peoples’ conversations, before Victor wets his lips and speaks again. “He was different tonight. Different than he was in Sochi, I mean.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. He’s sober this time.”

“Sumimasen,” Victor calls to the bartender, a phrase he’s picked up from the exhausted businessman sitting a few stools down. He points to his almost empty glass to indicate his interest in another round before returning his attention to Christophe. “I mean, I expected Yuuri to be more subdued than he was with a bottle of champagne in his hand, but he barely said a word after I gave him the flowers.”

Christophe takes a moment to consider this. “While I wouldn’t necessarily describe Yuuri as _shy_ , he is reserved. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t layers of confidence hidden underneath. In fact, I think we saw him shed a few of those layers in Sochi, along with his pants.”

“Reserved?” Victor blinks several times, puzzled. “The pole-dancing boy is reserved?”

“Don’t take my word for it. You’ll find out for yourself tonight. That is, unless he’s in a drinking mood. God, I hope he’s in a drinking mood...”

“When did you first meet Yuuri? You seem to know a lot about him.”

Christophe watches the bartender set a fresh beer in front of his friend and waits until they’re alone again before answering the question. “You know, I’ve probably explained this to you half a dozen times now. We were in the Junior Division together, and he’s been with the Seniors for a few years as well. I think the real question you should be asking is how did you _not_ know him before Sochi?”

“I knew _of_ him,” Victor says, his tone defensive.

“Victor, name the other three competitors we skated with in Sochi. Not counting me, Yuuri, or yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Victor presses a finger to his lips as he thinks, dimpling his lips in the middle. “Well...there was that one guy. The guy with the hair.” Victor wiggles his fingers over his own head to better illustrate exactly what kind of hair he’s talking about. “You know the guy.”

Christophe might find amusement in Victor’s flighty response if the deeper issue at hand didn’t make him feel so unsettled. “Do you know one of the symptoms of depression is forgetfulness?”

When Victor hears the question, which even Christophe has to admit is a bit heavy-handed, his blue eyes widen for a second—but then he just laughs it off.

And oh, he’s good at pretending.

There’s no one who can smile brighter or laugh louder than Victor Nikiforov when he’s deflecting attention away from what’s really going on. But what Christophe can’t figure out is why it seems like he’s the only person who’s noticed something’s wrong, and if he isn’t, why other people haven’t called Victor out on it sooner. Maybe they have but had their concerns dismissed, just like Victor is doing to Christophe right now.

That one glimpse of vulnerability in Sochi, when Victor confessed he’s lost something vital in his drive, is the deepest Christophe has ever gotten into the unexpectedly complex tangle of his best friend’s emotions. And if that moment of vulnerability happened as a result of Yuuri showing Victor what it means to laugh and smile _genuinely_ , then Christophe intends to continue nudging his friend in Yuuri’s direction.

There’s a reason he suggested this trip to Victor the night of Yuuri’s disastrous Short Program. After Victor watched a live-feed of the performance, he called Christophe to ask if he had any idea what was going on with Yuuri. Like many others who witnessed Yuuri’s first night at Nationals, Victor wondered if he might be injured. Christophe has never seen his best friend express so much concern over another person before. It simply isn’t like him. He isn’t certain yet what Victor feels for Yuuri, but Christophe has seen for himself the spark of life in his friend’s eyes when he looks at the younger man. For his sake, Christophe hopes to do what he can to nurture that.

“I’m proud of you for coming here,” Christophe says. “I think it’s a step in the right direction. Your own life is passing you by, and you don’t even realize it. Maybe a break from routine is exactly what you need to get back on track.”

“You just want me to be out of shape so you can beat me at Worlds,” Victor says.

“No, I want to beat you at Worlds with you skating better than you ever have before.” Christophe lifts his glass with a wink. “This is how we’re going to get you there.”

There’s a brief pause wherein something more genuine softens the look in Victor’s eyes. He lifts his own glass to join his friend in a toast. “Thanks for dropping everything to come here with me, Chris. I know you’ve got your own stuff going on. You’re a good friend.”

Christophe takes a drink and sets his glass back down with a self-satisfied smirk. “I _am_ , aren’t I? Josef had a few things to say about the timing of our little trip, but I think he understands. The European Championships aren’t until the first week of February this year, so one weekend away won’t hurt me. On a scale of one to ten, how angry is Yakov that you left Saint Petersburg without warning?”

“No idea,” Victor says, sounding distracted. “My voicemail’s full. Hey, what do you think happened to Yuuri out there on the ice tonight? I thought he’d be there with us at Worlds, but I guess tonight’s performance ruled out even the Four Continents as a possibility for him.”

Christophe adjusts his glass where it sits on the counter. “Oh, yes—his season ended tonight without a doubt. I have no idea what happened to Yuuri, but he didn’t look injured to me. He wasn’t holding himself like he was in pain. Something was definitely wrong, though.”

He watches Victor mill this over, and Christophe can scarcely believe the range of emotions he sees cross his friend’s expression. Concern. Protectiveness. Even a hint of frustration, like Victor is dissatisfied he hasn’t yet figured out a way to fix the problem. Yuuri is an enigma to him, and Victor has never been the most patient man in the world when it comes to unraveling a mystery,

“Can I offer you a bit of advice?” Christophe says. “Don’t ask Yuuri about it.”

“About what?” Victor says.

“His performance. He looked pretty upset when we first walked into that locker room. If you want to cheer him up, you might want to avoid the topic of skating altogether unless he brings it up himself.”

“But all he needs to do to get back on track is—”

“ _No_ , Victor,” Christophe says with a decisive shake of the head. “Trust me. You either don’t know or don’t remember what it’s like to feel that raw and defeated. He’s obviously going through something. The last thing he needs is one of the world’s top figure skaters picking him to pieces.”

Victor’s confusion remains written all over his face. “What do you mean, _one_ of the top figure skaters?”

“Look. Do you like Yuuri or not?”

“I thought...?” Victor lowers his head, and that strange vulnerability comes over him again. His silver-kissed eyelashes are aimed downward as he stares at the overlapping rings of condensation his glass has left on the counter in front of him. His fingers reach to drag lines through them.  “I don’t know, I thought maybe Sochi was a fluke? Like I was just in a weird mood after the Final, and that’s why he made such an impression on me. But when I saw him again earlier tonight, I got that feeling again—like someone shook me awake when I didn’t even realize I was sleeping.” He meets Christophe’s gaze again, his expression still unguarded. “Chris...I _really_ like him.”

Victor has always been in possession of strikingly good looks, but Christophe has never seen his friend more beautiful than when he’s talking about Katsuki Yuuri.

A smile spreads Christophe’s mouth wide. “I can see that. So am I correct in assuming you haven’t come to Sapporo in search of an epic one night stand?”

“Of course, not,” Victor says, clearly offended by the idea. “I want to get to know him better.”

“Then listen to me.” Christophe turns in his stool so that he’s fully facing Victor. “Out of the two of us, who has more experience with long-term relationships? Keep your mouth shut about Yuuri’s performance—and no critiquing anything else, for that matter. Not his looks. Not his country. _Nothing, Victor_.”

“But...Yuuri asked me to be his coach, so he must want some advice on how to improve his performances. And giving an honest critique is how a coach shows his love.”

“Did you come all the way to Japan tonight with two dozen roses to be Yuuri’s _coach_?”

“Well, no. I just want to take him to dinner.”

“Exactly. So treat him like you’d want to be treated on a first date. Be sweet to him. Turn up the charm. If he asks you to rip apart his performance, feel free to be as savage as you like—but don’t just assume he wants you to make him feel any worse than he already does.”

Victor appears stunned, as if he hasn’t realized until now how close he’s come to making a huge mistake. “All right. No talking about his performance unless he asks. What else? I assume there’s more.”

“Of course, there’s more. Roasting you alive is how a best friend shows his love.” Christophe flashes a shit-eating grin, pleased with himself for bringing Victor’s ridiculousness full circle. “Yuuri’s not the type who’s going to respond if you come on too strong. He’s far too timid, and you’re like a freight train of enthusiasm when something catches your eye. Try to tone it down a bit tonight.”

Now Victor looks _really_ confused. “He’s the one who came on to me first, Chris. How am _I_ suddenly the conductor of the Enthusiasm Train?”

Christophe has to take a deep breath before responding. He shudders to think how this meeting with Yuuri might have gone down without him here to temper Victor’s more endearing personality quirks. “Look at your presence here in Japan from Yuuri’s perspective. A guy he drunk-danced with once just flew to another country to see him out of the blue. You’ve already come on strong just by being here. All I’m suggesting is that you back off a little and let him adjust. Get to know him while he’s sober. Then trust your instincts from there and meet him where he’s at.”

“Meet him where he’s at,” Victor says, repeating Christophe’s advice as if to commit it to memory. “I have no idea what that means...but okay. I’ll try my best.”

Christophe chuckles as he takes another sip of beer. It’s already helping him relax after a long day of travel. “Don’t worry. If you say something wrong to your playboy, I’m here to kick you under the table. And speaking of playboys...” He reaches out to tap Victor’s shoulder and then gestures to the entrance of the bar.

Katsuki Yuuri looks damn good in blue.

He hesitates at the threshold between the bar and the hotel lobby, a look of uncertainty on his handsome, young face—like he isn’t certain what to do next even though he clearly sees Victor and Christophe sitting there at the counter, waiting for him. Phichit is murmuring something in his friend’s ear while he tugs at his elbow. The bar lighting shines electric red in their hair.

Christophe can’t help but eye the pair up and down. He hasn’t come to Japan looking for anything for himself, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the local scenery. However, when he returns his attention to his best friend, Christophe is again reminded exactly who he’s come here for. And it’s not Yuuri, Phichit, or himself.

Victor doesn’t seem to realize he’s risen to his feet.

His eyes have locked with Yuuri’s from across the bar, and though he’s not exactly smiling, he doesn’t have to. Victor’s expression is like sunshine breaking through rainclouds. He glows as if he’s been lit from within by an unseen hand. A flame passed from candle to candle. It’s a cautious hope that shines in his eyes but hope nonetheless.

Christophe’s mouth splits into another grin. His best friend has it _bad_.

“Phichit, Yuuri!” he calls. “Come join us for a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, I think of this chapter as “The one where Phichit and Christophe prevent everything that went wrong in Episode 2.”


	3. Sapporo - part 2

Katsuki Yuuri is beautiful.

Victor already knew this. Ever since the young man caught his eye, he’s been seeing him everywhere. On the Grand Prix banners when he left the arena in Sochi. On his cell phone at the airport, when he watched Yuuri’s past performances while waiting for his flight. In his lonely apartment in Saint Petersburg, when Victor had no one there to keep him company except the pictures on his phone of Yuuri approaching him at the banquet.

In truth, Victor knows very little about him. Just enough to feel fascinated and frustrated at the same time.

On the ice, Yuuri has a quiet grace that’s impossible to look away from. When he falls, it’s like watching someone drop a Rembrandt painting in the mud. It’s a feeling of loss to see a living work of art reduced to nothing but a one-point deduction.

Although inconsistent, Yuuri possesses an undeniable talent. It’s no wonder he made it to the Grand Prix Final as one of the top figure skaters in the world. Victor has studied Yuuri’s qualifying performances at Skate Canada and Trophée de France—two consecutive silver medal wins that earned him a spot in Sochi—and has seen his own influence in the movements. Victor has always had a style of his own. Katsuki Yuuri does not copy it exactly, but he has taken it, molded it into something new, and breathed life and musicality into it. Victor has no life within himself anymore to breathe into anything. The last time he can remember being aware of his own pulse was in Sochi, when a handsome young man asked him to dance.

Katsuki Yuuri is not a better skater than Victor Nikiforov.

But he could be.

In person, Yuuri is timid but sweet. Victor sits across from him at a cramped table in Sapporo’s Ramen Alley and tries not to stare. Most of the patrons at the tiny ramen bar are seated at the counter, but Christophe, Victor, Yuuri, and Phichit have managed to grab one of few available tables so that they can talk face to face. It’s so small that Victor and Christophe are practically bumping shoulders, but he doesn’t pay that any mind. He has eyes for one person alone.

This is the third time Victor has met Katsuki Yuuri, and he still has no idea what to make of him.

They met twice in Sochi—once at the arena and again at the banquet—and it was like meeting two completely different people. Yuuri was obviously crushed after his defeat at the Final, and he’s crushed now as well, having scored even worse at Nationals. But in Sochi, he only looked angry with himself—like he knew he could do better next time—and this time, there’s something resigned in his expression. When he smiles, it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Today, on their third meeting, Yuuri has again become another person. This new Yuuri is soft-spoken with gentle manners, and he does not impose himself on anyone. But every now and then, there’s a sharpness to his gaze that reminds Victor of that dance they shared in Sochi when Yuuri was quite imposing indeed. It makes Victor’s pulse race whenever he sees even a glimmer of it. He has to take deep breaths to calm himself but eventually decides he doesn’t want to be calm. He likes this feeling of electricity he gets from Yuuri. Victor wants to be shocked back to life.

Outside, snow falls from low-hanging clouds onto the city, but the cold has not permeated inside the ramen bar. The heat coming off the stoves is more than adequate to keep the patrons warm. Victor’s cheeks are flushed, partially from the broth in his belly but also because of his attraction to the man sitting across the table from him.

“I love Japan,” Victor gushes. “This is my fourth or fifth time visiting. I’ve been to the NHK Trophy once here in Sapporo and another time in Osaka, and then there was the World Championship a few years ago in Saitama. I just love the culture, and the people are always so friendly. And the _food_.”

He’s already reduced his bowl of ramen to almost nothing. Phichit and Yuuri have slowed down as well, though Christophe lags far behind everyone else, always preferring to savor tastes rather than rushing the experience.

“I’m glad you like it,” Yuuri says with a shy smile. Though his gaze is fixed on the table in front of him, he’s so pleased with the compliment that he wiggles down into his seat.

And oh, yes. Katsuki Yuuri is beautiful.

He has the softest hair that falls over his forehead and hides his eyes when he looks down. His lips are full and kissable, and his rounded cheeks and huge, mahogany-brown eyes make him look younger than he actually is. But Victor has seen the way those eyes can pierce through an entire room of people and demand that attention be focused solely on him. Even now, Victor can barely rip his gaze away.

But it’s not just the two of them sitting there at the table. Phichit Chulanont is lively and outgoing, and he seems particularly protective of Yuuri, who often goes quiet or seems to be weighed down by his thoughts. Whenever Yuuri is too shy to offer a response to one of Victor’s questions, Phichit fills in the blanks with helpful information.

“Yuuri’s parents own a hot springs resort in Kyushu,” Phichit explains. “That’s the southernmost island of Japan. He’s got an older sister named Mari, and she helps out at the onsen while Yuuri’s finishing up school. He’s just got a few credits left before he graduates.”

“Interesting,” Victor says, eyes shifting to Yuuri’s face. “Where do you go to school?”

“Um...” Yuuri blinks down at his bowl, his cheeks kissed attractively with color. “Currently in Detroit...but that’s not where I...I mean, there’s a...”

“Technically, he’s enrolled in college here in Japan,” Phichit says. “But he’s been in Detroit for the last few years studying with Celestino Cialdini. He’s our coach. Yuuri’s getting credits while studying abroad in America. Right, Yuuri?” He nudges his friend to prompt him to say something.

“I-I should have graduated this month,” Yuuri says, blushing even harder now. He looks embarrassed. “Last spring, actually. But with the competition schedule...”

“I know how that goes,” Christophe says. “It took me five years to graduate myself. It never fails that the Grand Prix Final takes place the same week as final examinations, and all the qualifying events happen when tests or papers are due.”

“Yes, exactly,” Yuuri says. “I received an ‘Incomplete’ in three classes but got special permission because I was involved in ISU competitions. I have to go back next semester until I log enough lecture hours, finish up some term papers, and sit for final exams. I’ll probably finish mid-semester. Maybe February or March.”

Victor doesn’t have much to add to this conversation because he never went to college. His whole life has only ever been about skating, and he still hasn’t decided whether or not he regrets that. “When do you go back to Detroit?”

“Tomorrow,” Yuuri says, finally meeting Victor’s eyes. “Our flight leaves in the afternoon.”

Victor’s smile never leaves his lips, but it vanishes from his eyes like a flame snuffed out on a candle. He feels as if someone has just punched him in the stomach. He thought he would be able to spend a few days with Yuuri, at least. “You’re not going home to see your family first?”

“Ah, no,” Yuuri says. “It’s been a few years since I’ve been to Hasetsu.”

“But you came all this way from America,” Christophe says. “I’m sure you don’t get to come home to Japan that often with school. You’re really not going to see them?”

Yuuri’s answering smile has a bit of an edge to it. “Would you want to go home after a performance like that?”

It’s the first and only time the subject of his disastrous performance comes up that night.

Victor has a few things to say about this. First off—yes, he _would_ want to go home to his family because he can’t remember what it’s like to have one and would love to find out. Secondly, he doesn’t understand what happened to Yuuri tonight. Or in Sochi, for that matter. He clearly has the talent needed to win his weight in gold medals, so his recent struggles with competitions must be caused by something else. But while Victor wants to know what the problem is so that he can help solve it, Christophe has forbidden him from speaking on the subject.

Instead, Victor bites his tongue and listens.

“I think if I were you, I would want to do exactly what we’re doing now.” Christophe sets his chopsticks down in a perfect line beside his bowl and sits back in his chair. His fingers stretch toward his glass of beer as he continues to speak. “Unwind with a good meal and a drink with some friends and remember what’s actually important in life. This beer in particular ranks near the top of that list.” He lifts his glass before taking a drink—and just like that, the tension vanishes.

Victor has always admired Christophe’s attitude toward skating. He takes it seriously—he wouldn’t have gotten this far in his career if he didn’t—but Christophe has always known how to stop and focus on his personal life. He’s dated a number of men and woman throughout the years—a few of them, even seriously. He goes skiing in the winter and takes tropical vacations in the summer. He’s well-travelled, well-read, and speaks more languages than Victor, which is saying something.

Christophe knows how to live. While not the oldest person sitting at this table, he is perhaps the wisest. He understands what’s important and uses that passion to breathe life into his skating. And while Christophe has never beaten Victor in a competition before, sometimes he wonders who has really come out the winner after all these years.

“Do you remember that time when we were in Juniors together?” Christophe says. “We were competing in Zurich, in my home country, and I bawled like a baby in the middle of my Free Skate after twisting my ankle. Do you remember what you said to me after that performance, Yuuri?”

“Honestly?” Yuuri says with a nervous laugh. “I don’t even remember what I ate for breakfast this morning. I’ve been a little out of sorts ever since Sochi.”

He says it like a joke—the self-depreciating kind meant to make others feel more comfortable with an uncomfortable topic. But though it works and an easy laughter passes between the four of them, Victor can’t help but hear Christophe’s voice in his head: _Do you know one of the symptoms of depression is forgetfulness?_

It makes Victor wonder why that is. Not that he thinks he’s depressed or anything, but he has felt disengaged from the world around him for some time now. Perhaps his memory has been affected simply because he hasn’t been ‘in the moment’ and paying attention to what’s happening around him. Now mindful of this, Victor sits up in his chair and makes an effort to actively engage himself now.

“Well, I’ll never forget it,” Christophe says. “You told me I was the only person in that entire arena that was upset about my performance, and once I stopped and thought about it, I realized you were right. I’d received my first standing ovation when I left the ice, even after I’d messed up and hurt myself, because the audience understood that I’m just human. You made me realize that day that no one expected me to be perfect except for myself. In fact, I’ve never felt more supported than those times when I didn’t skate my best.” Christophe smiles as he brings his glass to his lips, but he pauses before drinking from it. “Did you notice you received a standing ovation tonight, Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s still staring at the table, his gaze lost somewhere between his barely-eaten bowl of ramen and his barely-touched glass of beer. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite tonight. “No. I didn’t.”

Phichit elbows his friend again and says, “I told you so. Your fans know what you’re capable of. Tonight didn’t change that, so cheer up.”

“Alternately,” Christophe says, “you can just get wildly drunk, go pole-dancing with us again, and pretend to cheer up. I’ve heard it helps take the edge off.” He winks and takes a sip of beer before setting his glass down.

At first, Yuuri’s ever-present blush only deepens, but then he’s turning his face away and giving in to a moment of quiet laughter instead. Victor feels butterflies erupt into flight in his stomach at the way those beautiful brown eyes sparkle. While he’s always enjoyed Christophe’s easygoing personality, Victor is especially glad his friend is here tonight. Christophe has a way of making things seem simpler than they are, and Victor will forever be grateful to him for putting that much-needed smile on Yuuri’s face.

“I’m never going to live down what happened in Sochi, am I?” Yuuri says.

“Well, I certainly hope not,” Victor says with a quirk of his eyebrows. “I have many fond memories of that night.”

Their eyes lock.

Times slows, thickened with honey. Voices dim into the background, and the restaurant fizzles away into nothing, leaving Victor and Yuuri there alone, engaged in a silent conversation with that single, lingering glance. Victor wonders if Yuuri feels it, too—the spark of electricity dancing inside. He has to mindfully slow his breathing back down again.

“Okay, you guys _have_ to tell me more about Yuuri getting wasted at the banquet,” Phichit says. “I’m supposed to be his best friend, but the first time I’ve heard anything about it was tonight.”

Victor’s smile spreads a bit wider. While he hasn’t seen any evidence of a romantic relationship between Yuuri and Phichit, he’s glad to have their ‘just friends’ status confirmed. “He certainly livened things up. That was the most fun I’ve had in years.”

“Personally?” Christophe says, a hand pressed to his heart. “I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about it. I take great pride in my pole-dancing skills, and losing to Yuuri was very hurtful. Traumatic even.” He wipes away an imaginary tear before cracking a smile. “I have pictures of my night of trauma if you’d like to see them.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Phichit says, his eyes going wide. “Show me everything.”

“ _No_ ,” Yuuri begs.

But it’s too late. Phichit and Christophe are soon lost in their own world, forming a new friendship as they laugh and bond over the images on Christophe’s phone. Yuuri is left with his face buried in his hands, sinking ever lower in his chair and muttering something unintelligible behind the cage of his fingers.

The tips of Yuuri’s ears are red, and Victor thinks it’s quite possible that he might be in serious danger of falling for this boy. Yuuri is absolutely adorable, and though he’s different from the confident playboy who demanded Victor’s attention in Sochi, he finds himself equally charmed by this other more endearing side of him.

Back when they were waiting at the hotel bar, Christophe warned him not to push things with Yuuri too fast, but Victor can’t help but nudge a little. “I really don’t know what you’re embarrassed about.” His fingertips play on the cool surface of his glass as he says it, flirting with his eyes as well as a knowing smile. “I came all this way just for another dance with you.”

As Yuuri’s hands fall away from his face, he seems to stop breathing. He looks at Victor hard, as if he isn’t convinced who that comment was aimed at. Victor gazes steadily back and hopes that clears up any confusion. When Yuuri checks to see if anyone is standing behind him, Victor can’t help but laugh out loud at how ridiculously _cute_ he is.

And yes, it’s happening. He’s developed a terrible, life-altering crush on Katsuki Yuuri in the last five seconds, and Victor has no idea how he’s supposed to let him go back to America tomorrow without him.

“Yes!” Phichit says, overhearing Victor’s last comment. “Let’s go dancing now. Yuuri, are there any clubs nearby?”

Yuuri opens his mouth but shuts it again a moment later. Either he doesn’t know the answer or isn’t willing to say it out loud.

“I’ve been to Sapporo before,” Victor says. “I know of a few clubs. Or, at least...I can point us in their general direction.”

“ProTip,” Christophe says, lifting a finger as he speaks. “Listen up, you two, because this is important. Never _ever_ trust Victor Nikiforov’s sense of direction. Especially when he uses the word ‘general’ in the same sentence. He will lead you astray.”

“ _Excuse_ me.” Victor turns in his seat. “Who got us from the airport all the way to the arena tonight? On time, I might add.”

“The taxi driver did, Victor. All you did was point and say the name of the venue, and he ignored you and went the opposite direction.”

“We...we went the other way?” Victor asks, blinking in confusion. “No, we didn’t. You’re just being dramatic. Except, wait... _did_ we go the other way? I can’t remember now.”

Christophe groans and turns away to massage the tension out of his forehead.

Phichit nods as he looks between them both, understanding the situation now. “We’ll ask Siri for directions,” he says and pulls out his iPhone.

When they leave their table at the ramen bar and slip on their coats to brave the snowy weather outside, Victor feels for the first time how much he’s had to drink tonight. He’s not intoxicated by any means, but his mind and body are incredibly relaxed. It feels wonderful, especially when the crisp winter air hits his overheated cheeks. He draws a breath deep into his lungs before releasing it to freeze in the air before him.

Sapporo is beautiful in December—a blur of colorful lights, soaring billboards, and friendly faces. Barren trees line the snowy streets, but strings of little twinkling lights warm their branches in place of the missing leaves. They fall into two sets of pairs as they walk down the sidewalk, with Phichit and Christophe leading the way and Victor and Yuuri lingering a few steps behind. Snow drifts down from above as they wait at a crosswalk.

A comfortable banter has fallen into place between Phichit and Christophe, but Yuuri hasn’t said a word since they left Ramen Alley. Victor steals a glance at his quiet companion and is momentarily distracted by the snowflakes in his hair. Yuuri flinches when a flake lands on the tip of his nose and starts to melt, and Victor smiles as he watches his crush wipe it away.

When the crosswalk signal turns and allows them to pass, Yuuri isn’t paying attention. Without thinking, Victor presses his palm briefly to the small of Yuuri’s back to guide him and feels something click into place in his heart. It steals his breath away for a moment before he remembers himself again.

“Can I buy you a drink at the club?” Victor asks, his gloved thumb rubbing the fabric of Yuuri’s coat before his arm falls away. “I’d like to get to know you better.”

Yuuri wets his lips, which are slightly chapped, and stares straight ahead. “Okay,” he says, his tone soft.

And it’s all Victor can do not to touch him again. He slips his hands into his pockets instead so that he’s not tempted. “Tell me more about Kyushu. That’s where Phichit said you were from, right?”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Phichit says when he notices Victor and Yuuri have fallen more than a dozen paces behind them. “Your friend seems to like my friend. Can you confirm or deny?”

Christophe’s good-natured laughter rings out ahead of them. “I’m afraid I can do neither. Otherwise I wouldn’t be a very good friend. But let’s pretend for a moment that he does. Would those feelings perchance be mutual?”

At the same time, they both turn to glance backwards at their best friends. Yuuri is staring at the ground, and Victor is staring at Yuuri. Their hands are buried in their pockets, and their lips take turns moving as they share in a quiet conversation.

“Yuuri’s going to mess this up,” Phichit says, facing forward again. “He tends to self-destruct whenever anything good happens to him.”

“Victor will mess it up first,” Christophe says with a sigh. “He doesn’t say the most sensitive things when he’s nervous, but once he relaxes and starts thinking before he speaks, he’ll be fine.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“Bring them to a loud club where Yuuri hopefully can’t hear Victor talk or hear himself think either. We need to get them on a dancefloor together. Phichit, you should have seen the sparks fly between them in Sochi.”

Phichit steals another backwards glance at Victor and Yuuri and this time, snaps a covert picture of them with his phone. He smiles down at the image on the screen, the light of his phone reflected in his eyes. “You know, I would have thought it was pretty unlikely before you and Victor showed up tonight, but seeing the two of them together now...yeah, I’m seeing some sparks.”

“Just wait until Yuuri starts moving his hips and sends those sparks into a raging inferno.”

“I wish he would,” Phichit mutters. “To be honest, what Yuuri needs most tonight is to stop overthinking everything for once in his life and maybe get laid.”

“What a coincidence. What Victor needs is to _start_ thinking and _not_ get laid. They’re perfect for each other!”

“You know what?” Phichit turns his attention up to his new friend, who is almost a full head taller than him. “Let’s make this happen for them. I want to see Yuuri happy again, even if it’s just for one crazy night.”

A sly smile plays at the corners of Christophe’s lips. “Well, if I have anything to do with it, it’s not going to end after just one. Victor needs this, too. Badly.”

Pleased with this response, Phichit grins and extends his hand between them. “You’ll be my partner, then?”

“I will, indeed,” Christophe says and shakes his hand. “Partners in crime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Dancing after midnight used to be illegal in Japan until recently. The things you learn while researching fanfic...


	4. Sapporo - part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve started a playlist for this fic on my blog, so if you like mood music while you’re reading, please check it out by [clicking here](http://borntomake.tumblr.com/post/160388139609/drive-by-proantagonist-a-victuuri-road-trip). I’ll continue to add songs to the same blog post with future chapters.

Entering the nightclub is like descending into another world.

Yuuri feels it when the door shuts behind him. There’s snow melting in his hair, and the rosy tip of his nose feels hot, even though it’s half-frozen from the icy weather outside. He has no idea what he’s doing here and would like nothing more than to turn around and walk straight back to the hotel. After humiliating himself so thoroughly tonight, he wants to be alone. To hide from everyone and lick his wounds in peace.

But when he opens his eyes to this new world in front of him, he finds the heavy beat of the music has made him strangely calm.

He thinks to himself: _I can be alone here._

It’s an odd thought to have at such a moment, considering the club is packed to near-capacity with warm bodies, but Yuuri feels like he has left something of himself behind the moment he walked through the door. They all have.

The nightclub is synthesized chaos, with lasers piercing the darkness and dancers in futuristic costumes up on platforms, and it’s like walking face-first into a wall of frequencies. Both light and soundwaves push the limits almost beyond the human ability to perceive them. The chill in the air near the doorway warms the closer they get to the dancefloor, which has a distinct heat coming off it. Performing onstage is a DJ wearing dark glasses and black lipstick, and those standing in front of her have their arms raised and move to the beat she’s set for them. The mindless rhythm encourages Yuuri’s pulse to rush forward to catch up.

As he follows his three companions through the crush of bodies, he wonders if he’s only lost in a dream of his own making. Perhaps he is in his hotel room—alone in his bed, fast asleep, and dreaming up a better ending for the nightmare that’s been tormenting him since Sochi. Surely this can’t be the real world. Victor Nikiforov couldn’t possibly have come all the way to Japan to see him.

But when Yuuri looks down and sees a pale hand grasping his own, pulling him forward into the crowd, his heart starts beating faster than even the music can keep up with. The silver-haired man in front of him turns just long enough for his eyes to gleam electric blue in the dark.

 _Please don’t let me wake up yet_ , Yuuri thinks.

The four of them pause to shed their coats and then find a place to stash them at a recently-vacated table near the bar. Christophe shouts something over the music about buying the first round, and Yuuri doesn’t catch what Victor says in reply. He’s dropped Yuuri’s hand and probably only grabbed it in the first place so he wouldn’t fall behind the rest of the group. Yuuri’s so distracted by the pleasant tingling in his fingers that he barely notices when Phichit grasps his arm and leans in to say something in his ear.

“If I promise not to drink tonight,” Phichit says, “will you let loose and have some fun? I’ll look out for you and make sure nothing bad happens.”

Yuuri responds only with a sigh. Phichit won’t be twenty years old until April. He can’t legally drink here anyway, but that’s never stopped him. Even in Detroit, where the drinking age is twenty-one, Yuuri has never seen a bartender question Phichit’s fake ID before.

“Come on,” Phichit says. “I would be the worst friend ever if I didn’t encourage you to make the most of this. When are you ever going to get this chance again?”

The question transforms into something else in Yuuri’s mind: _When are you ever going to see Victor again?_

Because this isn’t a dream. His idol really and truly is standing right there, and as embarrassed as he is to have Victor see him at such a low point in his life, Yuuri is already dreading the inevitable moment when they’ll part ways later tonight. It’s doubtful they’ll meet again at a future competition unless he figures out a way to overcome whatever’s going on with him and keep skating. This really could be the last time he ever sees him.

A quick glance reveals that Victor is watching them both. Now that he’s taken off his coat and scarf, Yuuri can see that Victor’s wearing a fitted, iron-gray Henley that dips down into a V on his chest. The fabric stretches over his trim waistline and down to the relaxed fit of his dark pants. Yuuri swallows, not sure what to do with the surge of raw attraction that rises up inside of him.

“I’m trying to convince him to have a drink,” Phichit calls to Victor so that he doesn’t feel left out of their conversation.

“What?” Victor shouts back and then laughs at how ridiculously loud the music is.

Yuuri rather likes the volume. He doesn’t have to talk in here. Perhaps the glare of neon lights on the lenses of his glasses will even hide the fact that he can’t seem to stop staring. But since the universe never likes him to find relief for long, the DJ chooses that moment to crossfade into another song. This one is just as loud but offers a chance for voices to be heard between the heartbeat of the bass drum.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Phichit says again.

“Fine,” Yuuri says. “I’ll have a drink.”

Phichit pumps a fist into the air and says, “ _Yes_. Victory!”

Christophe returns at that moment with four large shot glasses balanced carefully in his hands. “What are we celebrating?” he asks as he passes them around.

Yuuri looks down at the drink in his hand and sees his own doom written on the surface. He won’t be drunk after a single shot—or even two or three. But once he starts drinking, especially when he’s in this kind of a mood, it’s always been a slippery slope.

Phichit politely declines the drink and says, “I promised Yuuri I’d stay sober tonight. Someone has to be the responsible one.”

“Ah, so you’re the Mom Friend,” Christophe says.

“No, no, no,” Phichit says, laughing as he points at Yuuri. “ _He’s_ the Mom Friend. We’re just trading places tonight so he can let loose a little.”

“I like the sound of that.” Christophe hands Yuuri the extra shot. “That means you get two in honor of your friend’s sacrifice.”

“I said I’d have _a drink_ ,” Yuuri says as he tries and fails to give the shot to someone else. “Not that I’d get plastered.”

“Come on,” Victor says, joining in with the laughter. “You’re with friends. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Oh, gee,” Yuuri says, turning to glare at his best friend. “Let me think.”

“Look, you’ve got a designated Mom Friend standing right there,” Christophe says. “So give Phichit some hard boundaries, and it’s his job to make sure you don’t cross them. It’s easier to have fun when you know you have a safe space to do it. Victor and I will help make sure you don’t cross any lines either.”

“Uh,” Victor says. “I’m not very good at being the Mom Friend.”

Yuuri has been drunk enough times to see the sense in giving Phichit some ground-rules. “No stripper poles. No breakdancing or karaoke bars. And no letting me gamble, drunk-dial anyone, or dance on tables. And absolutely no pictures or social media posts. I mean it, Phichit. If I go off the rails, you put me back on again.”

Phichit turns his eyes upward with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. As long as you actually let yourself have fun.”

“Huh,” Christophe says. “And here I thought you’d put ‘no sex’ at the top of that list. Silly me. All right—did everyone hear Yuuri? Let’s keep him safe tonight. Now what are we toasting?”

It’s doubtful anyone notices that Yuuri is suddenly blushing so hard that it’s a wonder his whole body hasn’t burst into flames. He lets out a whimper no one hears.

“To life,” Victor says as he raises his glass, “and taking the time to live it.”

“To love,” Christophe adds, giving Victor a wink, “and the pleasures to be found in its pursuit.”

“To being the Mom Friend.” Phichit lifts an imaginary glass in his empty hand. “And drinking crappy tap water all night.”

The three of them look to Yuuri, and he’s left with a dry mouth, two drinks in his hands, and a choice.

And maybe it’s the music and the way it makes it near impossible to think, or perhaps it’s that he’s still half-convinced he’s dreaming. But suddenly he’s _tired_. So incredibly tired of feeling like this. Of never being brave or good enough to demand what he really wants.

“Oh, fuck it,” Yuuri says before he downs both shots in quick succession.

The others laugh and follow suit, but he barely notices. The music is ramping up again, and as he swallows the liquid that burns all the way down to his stomach, he closes his eyes and allows the hypnotic beat fill his mind. When he opens them again and looks straight at Victor, Yuuri lets himself become another person for a brief moment.

It’s a flash of confidence. Barely a whisper of lightning in his eyes.

But it’s enough to make Victor part his lips and stare.

And yes, Yuuri is aware that Victor Nikiforov thinks he’s someone he’s not. He thinks Yuuri is that person he met at the banquet, and maybe just for tonight, that’s who he can become again. He doesn’t need alcohol for that. He just needs to stop giving a damn.

“I’ll buy the next round,” Yuuri says and turns to disappear into the crowd.

And in the back of his mind, he dares Victor Nikiforov to follow.

 

* * *

 

Standing at the bar with his wallet in hand, Yuuri feels lost.

The bartender is ignoring him, choosing instead to flirt with a group of young women as he takes his time garnishing a cocktail. It’s difficult to maintain a mask of false confidence when Yuuri feels like he might as well be invisible.

A trio of loud foreigners sidle up to the bar next to him, and a man bumps into his right shoulder, forcing Yuuri to take a step to the left. The man calls out to the bartender, who nods and starts making a round of drinks for the whole group. And just like that, Yuuri is shoved to the back of the line, even though he was there first. Someone rests a hand on the bar between him and the loud man who had bumped into him, and Yuuri thinks he’s about to be demoted yet again when he turns and looks up into the face of the newcomer.

For the second time, Yuuri is struck by the realization that Victor Nikiforov is not as tall as he thought he would be. The reality of him is far more human than any construct from Yuuri’s imagination.

Or maybe just maybe...it’s Yuuri who is taller than he realized.

Victor has come up behind Yuuri and put himself—or his arm, at least—between him and the rude man who still hasn’t noticed Yuuri is there at all. He notices Victor, however, and turns to offer a wave and an apology before moving over a step to the right. Victor is free to move a little closer. He smiles down at Yuuri and says, “Hi.”

Yuuri’s gaze drops to the hand that’s still resting on the bar just a few inches away from his own. Victor isn’t touching him, but he’s close enough that Yuuri can feel the heat from his body. “H-hi.”

“Have you ordered yet?” Victor asks, putting his mouth close to Yuuri’s ear so that he’s easily heard.

Yuuri shakes his head and feels everything else inside of him shake as well. The warmth of Victor’s breath on his neck mixes with the burn of alcohol in his belly, leaving him flushed and off-balance. “What are you doing here, Victor?” he mutters to himself.

“What’s that?” Victor draws a little closer as he says it. “I didn’t hear.”

“I...” Yuuri wets his lips and tries to think of something to say. “I was...just asking about the Russian Championship. You competed this week, too, didn’t you?”

 _Yes_ , he thinks. _Good._

_Direct the conversation in Victor’s direction and far, far away from yourself._

Except that his question brings a kind of emptiness to Victor’s smile. “There wasn’t much competition this year.”

There’s an awkward pause that Yuuri feels but doesn’t understand. “Congratulations. I’m sure you were amazing.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Victor’s mouth moves even closer, his lips now less than an inch from Yuuri’s ear. “Did you mean it back in Sochi, when you asked me to be your coach?”

Yuuri has a difficult time formulating a response. Yes, he had meant it. Having Victor coach him would be a dream come true, but Yuuri doesn’t want to come across now as too anxious. He can’t believe he had the audacity to ask Victor something like that. He probably has fans bothering him every day of his life, and the last thing Yuuri wants to do is add to that. “I was pretty drunk that night. I’m sorry about that.”

Is it his imagination, or does disappointment flicker in Victor’s eyes?

It’s gone in an instant. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” Victor says. “I was flattered.”

Yuuri feels something warm spread through his belly. It’s not the first time he’s thought that Victor genuinely seems like a nice person. It would be heartbreaking to have looked up to him for all these years, only to be crushed by a not-so-kind reality. But no, Victor has a true sweetness about him. In Sochi, he had taken care of Yuuri by helping him sober up and getting him safely back to his room at the end of the night, and he’s taking care of him again now with that hand on the bar, which protects Yuuri still from the loud man standing to their right.

And as close as Victor is standing now, Yuuri doesn’t feel crowded. Perhaps it’s the alcohol that’s started to loosen him up, but Yuuri is almost tempted to take a step backwards until his back is resting against Victor’s chest. The mental image alone blinds Yuuri to everything else for a second.

A breath later, he’s rudely awakened by the sudden glare of lights in his eyes. Victor has moved a step back from him, and Yuuri is no longer protected by his shadow. He squints into the light and sees that two women have gotten Victor’s attention, and he’s turned away from Yuuri so that he can hear what they have to say. However, they’re speaking Japanese, and though Victor offers them a friendly smile, it’s clear from the blankness of his expression that he doesn’t understand them.

Yuuri presses his lips together and tries to ignore the pit in his stomach. The two women are very attractive, with their willowy figures, fashionable clothing, and confidence smiles. They’re exactly the kind of companions a sports celebrity might hope would keep them company during a quick weekend vacation. Yuuri feels incredibly frumpy as he stands there in his too-tight dress shirt that hugs his waistline.

“They want you to dance with them,” he says, translating their request for Victor.

“Oh,” Victor says and turns back to address the women. “Sorry, but I’m already here with someone.”

And the words just about make Yuuri’s heart stop.

The bartender has finally taken notice of him and is asking what Yuuri wants to drink, but he can’t seem to form a response. The two women haven’t understood Victor’s accented English, but they do understand the hand he places on Yuuri’s lower back. “ _Ohh_ ,” he hears one of them say, and they leave not long after.

Yuuri isn’t as easily convinced as they are. Victor’s flirting is overt enough that Yuuri wonders if he’s just being teased. But what really bothers him is that he can’t decide whether he feels like Victor is being too forward with his actions or too chaste. It’s maddening.

“Sorry about that,” Victor says. He notices the bartender has come to take their order and asks Yuuri, “Is it too touristy to order sake bombs in Japan? Is this guy going to look at me like I’m an idiot?”

“Probably,” Yuuri squeaks in reply.

“Two sake bombs!” Victor calls out with a cheerful smile. “Arigatou gozaimasu!”

He holds up two fingers in case the bartender doesn’t speak English, but judging from the dark look that crosses the man’s face, he understood just fine. Though he nods and starts making the drinks, it’s clear from his body language that he detests tourists.

“I just _love_ being a tourist,” Victor says to Yuuri. “It’s so exciting. Chris and I have an agreement that we do it everywhere we travel.”

Even though Yuuri’s a little embarrassed, he can’t help but laugh. Victor Nikiforov is kind of ridiculous, though in an endearing way.

Yuuri smiles as he pays for the drinks that are soon lined up on the bar in front of him—two tall glasses of beer with chopsticks resting horizontally on top. The bartender balances two shot glasses of sake on the chopsticks and shakes his head as he leaves them to it. Yuuri has heard of sake bombs before but has never tried one. He knows the idea is to hit the bar hard enough that the shot glasses fall into the beer, and then the entire thing is to be drunk as quickly as possible so as not to discover how repulsive it really is until it’s much, much too late.

And oh, yeah. It’s so touristy that he should feel as insulted as the bartender. Instead, he just laughs again as Victor hits the bar and fails to disturb either of the shot glasses.

It takes three tries before the shots fall into the beer, and when the liquid splashes in their direction, Yuuri steps back and bumps into Victor in the process. As they both take their glasses and drink them down, Yuuri is aware that the hand on his back has slid around to rest lightly on his waist.

“Ugh,” Yuuri says after he puts the empty glass on the bar. A shiver goes through his entire body. “I’m going to regret that. Actually...I think I’m already regretting it.”

Victor sets his glass down next to Yuuri’s. “Want another one?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Two more sake bombs, please!” Victor calls out to the bartender. “Actually, make that three!” To Yuuri, he says, “Let’s bring Chris one. He loves doing things he regrets later on.”

Christophe and Phichit come to meet them while the now-furious bartender is still busy making their next round of drinks. Phichit orders water for himself and looks far too happy every time his gaze falls on the hand Victor still has casually resting on Yuuri’s waist.

“How are you feeling, Yuuri?” Phichit asks with a blinding grin.

“Better than I did,” Yuuri has to admit.

While he’s not drunk yet, he’s getting there. His mind still maintains its clarity, which he much prefers over losing control, but the alcohol has loosened him up enough that laughter now comes easily. He doesn’t care anymore about what happened on the ice tonight. The competition seems very far away, as do any other troubles that once weighed him down. Yuuri’s mind is instead filled with music and the feel of that hand on his body. He could write an entire symphony about that hand.

“That’s disgusting,” Christophe says to Victor after he drinks his sake bomb. “Why would you order that? What’s wrong with you?” To the bartender, Christophe lifts his glass to indicate he wants another one.

Yuuri snorts into his own drink and almost chokes before he finishes. “No more for me,” he says, laughing as he puts his second empty glass on the bar. “I mean it this time.”

“As designated Mom Friend, I have to agree,” Phichit says. “He needs to slow down, or he’s going to puke everywhere. And I’m not cleaning it up.”

“The Mom Friend hath spoken,” Christophe says. “Je suis désolé, Yuuri. You’re cut off until your mom says you’re not grounded anymore.”

“I didn’t want another drink anyway!” Yuuri points at Phichit. “And he’s not my mom.”

For some reason, the three of them who have consumed alcohol find this hilarious. Meanwhile, Phichit just shakes his head with a grin and sips his water. And it feels _so good_ to laugh. Even better to do it with friends Yuuri didn’t even realize he had. Perhaps it’s because there are two sets of best friends among them, but conversation between the four skaters from four different countries comes effortlessly.

And the flirtation with Victor...that comes easily as well.

They do it with their eyes mostly, lingering glances that become more and more daring.

Victor has the most startling blue eyes that glow green in the right light. They have a way of saying things that his lips leave unspoken. He’s been asking Yuuri a question with those eyes ever since they walked through the door, but it’s not until that moment that he says it out loud.

“Would you like to dance with me?” Victor murmurs into his ear.

Yuuri meets Phichit’s eyes.

A silent conversation passes between them, wherein Yuuri tells his best friend in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t think he can do this, after which Phichit tells Yuuri to _stop thinking_ already and get out there.

“Yuuri?” Victor asks, his thumb caressing Yuuri’s back. “Did you hear me?”

It’s the way Victor says his name that does it.

Yuuri doesn’t even say yes. He just starts walking, his fingers intertwining with Victor’s.

And it’s like falling beyond an event horizon. The dancefloor fills his senses with equal parts light and sound, but the closer he gets, he feels it in his body as well. The beat is loud enough to tickle the fine hairs on every inch of exposed skin. The higher frequencies of the music sparkle in the air all around them, while the lower ones make Yuuri feel much braver than he actually is. They hook into his gut and draw him forward.

When he stops in the middle of the dancefloor, Victor doesn’t stop at the same time. He comes up behind Yuuri, both hands coming to tease his waistline with the lightest of touches. As Victor’s chest bumps up against his back, Yuuri closes his eyes, pulls one of Victor’s arms around his waist, and starts to move back against him.

He might very well regret this tomorrow...but at least he’s going to have something to remember at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Yuuri might not be in the healthiest place emotionally right now, try not to worry. He could not have a safer place to fall apart than with these three people. They’re not going to let anything bad happen or let him get destructive with his behavior, which is exactly why I put him there in the first place.
> 
> Also, I want to make it clear that Yuuri is not that drunk. He’s fully in control and aware of what he’s doing but has chosen not to care, just for one night.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Sapporo - part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [roadtrip soundtrack](http://borntomake.tumblr.com/post/160388139609/drive-by-proantagonist-a-victuuri-road-trip) for this story has been updated for Chapter 5. Follow me on [tumblr](http://borntomake.tumblr.com) to hear about updates. Happy reading!

Watching Yuuri come apart on that Sapporo dancefloor is something Victor will never forget. The shape of him is lined with light, like a pathway cutting into the darkness, and Victor walks steadily toward it. Where else would he go?

He’s admittedly a little drunk. Perhaps a bit hungrier for this than he should be. But what goes through Victor’s head as he approaches from behind is that he doesn’t want to mess this up. All the assumptions he’s brought with him to Japan are in desperate need of reevaluation, and the only person who can tell him who Katsuki Yuuri really is is the man himself.

This Yuuri, unlike the one Victor danced with in Sochi, doesn’t seem to have much confidence in himself. That much is obvious from the tension in his shoulders and the slight downcast angle of his chin. But whenever he stops thinking and charges forward in spite of whatever it is he feels he’s lacking...

Well, something like this happens.

Cautiously, Victor’s chest bumps up against Yuuri’s back, and then the young man guides one of Victor’s arms around his waist. When Yuuri bends his knees and starts to move against him, Victor all but stops breathing.

There’s an entire club working itself into a frenzy around them—strobe lights that seem intent on disorienting them, writhing bodies that demand attention—but Victor no longer notices any of it. His attention is instead drawn to the distracting inward arch of Yuuri’s lower back and by the smell of soap that rises up from his neck, warmed by his body heat. Although Victor tightens his arm slightly and moves closer, he restrains himself from rushing ahead. He feels like someone who’s caught a glimpse of a lost treasure but is still afraid to hope, just in case he’s mistaken.

One thing is for certain. Katsuki Yuuri knows how to move his body.

He’s a natural dancer who seems to demand the beat follow him instead of the other way around. His movements are equal parts raw talent and slow refinement gained from years of training.

But Yuuri is not looking at Victor. In fact, he’s very purposefully fixing his gaze in the opposite direction and only allowing Victor to interact with him from behind. That’s not nearly enough to satisfy him. He wants to see Yuuri’s smile and hear him laugh again, the way he did when they danced in Sochi. After all, Yuuri is the one who made Victor realize his own laughter has been lacking something.

Deciding to push a little, Victor walks a slow half-circle around Yuuri until they’re standing face to face. He keeps one hand low on Yuuri’s waist and uses the other to gently brush a finger on the underside of his chin, encouraging him to look up. Finally, those mahogany-brown eyes meet Victor’s, and it’s obvious then that even with several drinks in his belly, Yuuri is still not completely comfortable with this.

And it’s a little funny, to be honest.

Victor has seen this man half-naked with a pole clenched between his thighs, yet making direct eye contact with him has Yuuri almost ready to run for the door. He laughs it off and looks shyly away again, and Victor feels a hopeful fluttering in his chest...because Yuuri has the sweetest smile when he laughs. It’s just not fair that something that beautiful should be so fleeting.

Victor doesn’t push again. He’s learning quickly and finds that whenever he lets Yuuri look away, it’s easier to get closer to him. Easier to move their hips in time. Easier to coax Yuuri into relaxing with him. That’s when they really start to dance.

The music is different than it was in Sochi.

Slower. Hotter. Like the scent of sex spilling out into a dark room.

It’s the kind of beat that encourages the dancers to bend their knees and grind against each other, but Victor has no interest in getting ahead of himself. Instead, he moves close enough that he can feel the warmth from Yuuri’s body but touches him only occasionally on the waist or the small of his back. Victor flirts more with his eyes than he does with his hands, happy to savor every second of this delicious slow burn that’s ignited between them.

Little by little, Yuuri’s smiles start to come more naturally, and Victor’s smiles turn more genuine as a result. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the hypnotizing beat of the music, but when Victor reaches out a hand, Yuuri hesitates only briefly before taking it. It takes some time—almost the full length of the song—but those beautiful brown eyes finally meet Victor’s all on their own.

It’s a wonderful feeling, dancing with Yuuri—like not knowing how empty his hand was until someone reached out to hold it. But it’s also something Victor can’t unlearn. His eyes have been opened now to a world he’s been missing out on, and what immediately follows is a powerful ache of loneliness that shakes him to the core.

Suddenly, Victor is tired of everything.

Skating. Russia. Years and years of the same grating routine.

 _This_ is where he wants to be. In a strange new country, in the midst of an adventure that he doesn’t know the ending to. This thing with Yuuri could turn out to be nothing more than a weekend fling, but for the moment, it’s exactly what Victor needs. It’s a surprise not of his own making, and it’s _exciting_.

Knowing he won’t be heard over the music, Victor leans in close to speak directly into Yuuri’s ear. “Are you sure you have to go back to America tomorrow?”

It’s hard to tell in this lighting, but he’s certain Yuuri blushes. And it’s lovely, the way the heat rises to stain his cheeks. Though he doesn’t say anything in response, his eyes have started to sparkle the same way they did in Sochi, when he asked Victor to become his coach.

“I guess I’ll just have to come with you then,” Victor says with a laugh, feeling a stirring of affection inside as he twirls Yuuri around.

 

* * *

 

“What did I tell you?” Christophe says. He’s standing just behind Phichit, leaning against the bar with his fingers wrapped around a beer. The lights from the club shift from turquoise to yellow to magenta in the reflection of his glasses. “All we needed to do was get them to dance.”

“Wow,” Phichit says. He can hardly believe what he’s seeing. The last thing he expected to be doing tonight was spending a night on the town with Victor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti, and he’s relatively certain Yuuri is experiencing the same level of disbelief.

Phichit can’t stop smiling. Considering how badly this evening started out—with his best friend on the brink of an emotional breakdown—there’s a lot to be thankful for. As he watches Yuuri smile cautiously up at his idol, Phichit feels absolutely amazed by the change in him. Yuuri hasn’t looked that hopeful in ages, and that’s all Phichit needs to see in order to know that he ships Victor and Yuuri together as a couple. Phichit ships it _hard_.

“This is good,” he says under his breath, so relieved that he feels like giving everyone around him a hug. “This is really, really good.”

And it’s not just Yuuri. Victor has undergone a change as well. While he’s presented himself as polite and friendly all evening, there’s something different about him now. He’s softer. More genuine, perhaps. When Victor looks at Yuuri, it’s like watching the earth’s gravity drawing the moon into orbit.

Phichit can’t really blame the guy. Yuuri looks _good_ out there.

Feeling the need to share this information with others, Phichit turns to Christophe and says, “Doesn’t Yuuri look _good_ out there? He looks _good_.”

Christophe’s lips curl into a naughty little smile where they’re touching the rim of his beer bottle. He lowers his arm and swallows. “You’ll hear no complaints from me about the view. Where did he learn to dance anyway? I still can’t believe he beat me at pole-dancing. I’ve studied under the best.”

“YouTube. He gets insomnia at night.”

Christophe mutters something in French that sounds disparaging, but there’s laughter dancing in his eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want something to drink? My treat.”

Phichit smiles but shakes his head. He likes Christophe. It’s easy to be around him, and it’s obvious he cares about his own best friend. Plus, he tried to cheer Yuuri up when they were all at dinner earlier, so Phichit is automatically a fan. “I promised Yuuri I wouldn’t. Hey, do you want to dance?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” After taking one last drink, Christophe puts the empty bottle on the bar, but when he turns to follow Phichit, the smile has vanished from his face. “Uh oh. Who’s that?” Christophe points toward Victor and Yuuri, who have stopped dancing because two women have approached them, probably with a request to cut in.

“Oh, _hell_ no.” Phichit starts charging forward. “Sorry, ladies, but you will _not_ be cock-blocking my friend tonight.”

His fellow wingman, Christophe, is at his heels in an instant. Phichit feels a hand touch his arm near the elbow before he hears Christophe’s voice at his ear. “You distract the brunette. I’ve got the one in the dress.”

“Got it.”

The dancefloor is a little intimidating, what with the ever-changing lights and proximity to the speakers, but Phichit barely takes notice of it. He’s on a mission. When he makes it over to Yuuri, Phichit marches straight past him and instead offers the pretty brunette a bright smile. “Hi!” Phichit says, trying to look as friendly and welcoming as possible while he blocks her path to his friend. “Wanna dance?”

Beside him, Christophe has turned on the charm as well, first bowing low to the second young woman and then saying something to her in French. In his periphery, Phichit sees Victor mouth the words ‘ _thank you_ ’ to Christophe before leading Yuuri away.

Their distraction has worked, but unfortunately, neither woman seems impressed with their prospective new dance partners. They exchange a glance before silently agreeing to leave Christophe and Phichit standing there by themselves in the middle of the dancefloor.

Phichit might have felt slighted were he not having so much fun. Though he’s laughing, he can’t help but wonder what Yuuri has that he doesn’t?

 _(Curves_ , he tells himself. _The answer is curves.)_

He and Christophe look at each other, shrug at the same time, and start to dance together instead.

 

* * *

 

By the time the four of them leave the club, Yuuri is drunk.

The muscles in his legs have a pleasant burn in them from dancing, and his ears are ringing from the loud music, which he can still hear, muffled in the background. City lights blur before his eyes, shifting almost too fast for his mind to register. The snowflakes raining down from above meet with clouds of frozen breath that drift upward from the crowds of people navigating the sidewalks.

While it’s true that Yuuri has been drinking, he feels it’s not the alcohol that has intoxicated him. There’s something deeper. Something inside of him that has simply broken in two. This feeling of falling apart is a conscious decision. Not a loss of control.

He’s still half convinced this whole night is a dream but has resigned himself to enjoy it while it lasts. He feels warm and happy inside. Part of a group. Like for once in his life, he actually belongs. It’s a wonderful illusion.

Though he’s perfectly aware of what’s happening all around him, the way he perceives the world has drastically changed. Everything is far less complicated than it was only a few hours ago. When he slips on the icy sidewalk outside the club, he doesn’t get embarrassed. He just laughs at himself and thanks Victor for reaching out to steady him. And he doesn’t stammer when he says it either.

Who even knew that was possible? To not stutter and mumble and second-guess himself when speaking to someone he admires as much as Victor?

Yuuri feels good. Strangely in control of himself, even though he knows he’s probably not.

He knows he’s safe, though. Phichit is there and has promised to look after him. While the four of them take to the snowy Sapporo streets in search of their next adventure, Phichit comes up beside Yuuri, hugs his arm, and says, “I’m hungry again. Where’s the best place around here to get street food?”

And Yuuri can’t help but smile because he knows it’s _him_ that Phichit wants to feed. He probably wants to get some food in Yuuri’s stomach to help soak up some of the alcohol he’s consumed.

“And more beer,” Christophe adds. “It’s hard to maintain a buzz when it’s this cold outside.”

“There’s alcohol in the vending machines, Chris,” Victor says.

And there’s something about the way Victor’s ice blue eyes linger on Phichit that makes Yuuri’s heart skip a beat. Phichit is still hugging his arm, and Victor doesn’t seem to like that very much.

 _He likes me_ , Yuuri realizes.

It’s a thought he never would have entertained for a second if he was sober.

“Are you serious?” Christophe says to Victor. “How did I not know this?” After glancing both ways, Christophe jaywalks across the street and makes a beeline for the nearest vending machine.

Phichit hugs Yuuri a little closer, undaunted by the sigh Victor lets out. “On a scale of one to ten,” Phichit murmurs in Yuuri’s ear, “how drunk are you?”

“Hmm. Maybe a three or four.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel great.”

“I’m glad, Yuuri. But slow down on the drinking for a little while, okay? Maybe get something to eat. I want you to remember this tomorrow.”

There’s that warm, bubbly feeling again. Yuuri thinks it might be happiness or contentment but isn’t sure. “Thanks for being here, Phichit.”

“Where else would I be? I’ve been worried about you.”

“Sorry...”

“Don’t apologize. Just know that you have people who care about you.” Phichit looks up and says in a louder voice, “Hey, Victor. Do you like street food?”

Though Victor smiles in response to the question, it doesn’t feel entirely authentic.

But then again, Victor Nikiforov always smiles like that. In pictures with fans, photospreads in magazines, and even when he’s performing. That smile is on half of the posters Yuuri has hanging in his bedroom, and it’s an attractive thing to look at. But that isn’t the smile he saw Victor wearing when they danced. Now that Yuuri has seen what he thinks is the real thing, the manufactured version doesn’t feel quite the same.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it before,” Victor admits, “but I love trying new things.”

“Great!” Phichit lets go of Yuuri’s arm and gives him a sound push in Victor’s direction. “You two go on ahead and find something to eat. I’ll wait for Chris to catch up.”

And there’s no time to blink or even think about responding before Phichit is gone. Open-mouthed, Yuuri turns to watch his friend skip across the street to join Christophe by the vending machines.

“Shall we?” Victor asks.

Yuuri’s gaze falls to the gloved hand Victor has held out to him, and before he can stop himself, he reaches out to accept it.

Together, they find an area populated by food vendor stands that’s somewhat sheltered from the snowfall. The scent of delicious savory food warms the air, and Victor doesn’t let go of Yuuri’s hand while they watch a weathered old man turn yakitori skewers over a fire, grilling the meat to perfection. Yuuri’s stomach growls. He hadn’t been in the mood to eat much at dinner earlier that night, and the dancing has made him even hungrier.

“What do you suggest?” Victor asks.

“Everything,” Yuuri says. “I’m starving.”

Victor laughs and squeezes Yuuri’s hand. “Let’s try a bit of everything, then.”

That’s exactly what they do. Victor is very curious and inquisitive about every kind of food he samples. He asks the food vendors many questions about the ingredients and preparation, and Yuuri likes that he can help translate. They try the yakitori, which Victor praises to high heaven between every bite, and then they join a long line of people waiting to order some of the fresh crab that was caught in the cold Hokkaido waters earlier that day.

A crowd has gathered in spite of the weather, attracted by the smell of warm food. Everything is piping hot, delicious, and cooked with a keen attention to detail that Yuuri has never found anywhere else.

To him, there’s nothing like the food of Japan. More than anything, _this_ makes him feel like he’s home, and it hurts his heart a little to realize how much he’s missed his own country.

“What’s this called again?” Victor asks after they leave the third food stand. He’s holding a steaming dish in his hands—little balls of octopus, batter, and sauce.

“Takoyaki,” Yuuri says. “Try it. It tastes better than it looks.”

“It looks amazing to me. What are all these flaky bits they sprinkled on top?”

“I’ll tell you after you taste it.”

Victor looks up at him, his eyes glinting with teasing disapproval. “Yuuri...”

Yuuri feels suddenly hot under his winter coat. It’s not the first time he’s thought that Victor has a very attractive voice, but hearing him say Yuuri’s name like that is just plain astonishing. “It’s, uh...it’s called katsuobushi. Dried fish flakes.”

Undeterred by this information, Victor tries a piece of the takoyaki, and even though he promptly burns his tongue, the sound of pleasure he makes borders on indecency. “O боже...” He takes another hasty bite that burns him yet again, but he doesn’t seem to care. With his mouth still full, he says, “Yuuri, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

Yuuri’s mouth splits into a grin. “You’ve said that about everything we’ve tried so far.”

Afterward, they wander over to the food stand selling red-bean-paste-filled imagawayaki before Victor gets distracted by the delightful smell of grilled mochi. And it’s all unexpectedly effortless. The slow walk, their shoulders bumping together occasionally when the crowd pushes in too tight. The shared conversation while they wait in lines. The way Victor keeps reaching for Yuuri’s hand.

Victor is...

Well, he’s nice. Especially for someone who doesn’t have to be.

“What’s your favorite food?” Victor asks while they sip hot sake beneath a street lamp. The snowfall has slowed somewhat, but there’s a light dusting on the shoulders of Victor’s coat and clinging to his hair. It sparkles like diamonds when it catches the light.

“Katsudon,” Yuuri says. “That’s, um...it’s a pork dish. Fried pork with onion and egg, and served in a bowl over rice. Very unhealthy, but my mom’s recipe is hard to resist.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had that before. Can we try some?”

Yuuri hesitates. He doesn’t want katsudon from just anywhere. He wants his mother’s. “Uh, sure. I’ll keep an eye out for a place that sells it.”

Phichit and Christophe have long since caught up with them, but they’ve maintained a small amount of distance between themselves and Victor and Yuuri. They’re still over by the mochi stand down the block, but Yuuri can feel Phichit keeping an eye on him.

“I want ice cream,” Victor announces.

“Really?” Yuuri says, laughing. “It’s snowing.”

With a wink, Victor says, “I have a thing for doing the opposite of what’s expected of me.”

“I, uh...” Yuuri blushes, and it takes him a second to refocus his thoughts. “I think there might be a melon-pan stand somewhere around here.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a kind of bread that they serve hot, but they’ll put ice cream inside if you want. Like a sandwich.”

“Is that a touristy thing that foreigners come here to do?”

“Definitely.”

“Perfect.” Victor cups a hand to his mouth and calls out to Christophe and Phichit, who are slowly walking their way. “We’re going to get ice cream! Want to come?”

“Ice cream?” Christophe calls back. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No, I’m a tourist!”

Ten minutes later, Yuuri finds himself at a loss for words while he watches Victor lick a slow path up the side of his ice cream sandwich. And then—God help him—Victor starts moaning with pleasure and going in for more. Only he could make a frozen dessert look attractive in the dead of winter in one of the snowiest cities on the planet.

“Mmm,” Victor says, his silvery eyelashes fluttering shut. “Oh, I’m in heaven.”

Christophe has his hands buried in the pockets of his coat and looks far less amused than his best friend. “No, your brain cells are just dying _en masse_ while you freeze to death, and you’re confused about where you are.”

“Yeah, your lips are kind of turning blue,” Phichit points out.

Wearing the world’s cutest smile, Victor offers the dessert out to Yuuri. “Would you like blue lips to match mine?”

“Mon Dieu...” Christophe mutters under his breath. “Victor, your pick-up lines need some serious work.”

“So do your triple axels,” Victor retorts, not missing a beat.

Phichit chokes on a sip of soda, almost snorting it up his nose in the process, and that gets all four of them cracking up. “Touché,” Christophe laughs.

After devouring the ice cream and bread, Victor’s chattering teeth inspire them to retreat indoors where it’s warmer. They find an arcade that’s open late and take over a _Dance, Dance Revolution_ machine for the better part of an hour. It’s mostly a face-off between Phichit and Yuuri. Christophe is too inebriated to make a formidable opponent, and Victor is facing a significant learning curve, claiming he didn’t even know such games existed in the first place.

“Victor, this isn’t your first time in an arcade, is it?” Christophe asks. “You look like a little kid at his own birthday party.”

It’s true. Victor’s eyes are lit up brighter than the lights on the game. Out of the four of them, he’s by far the most excited, practically bouncing on his heels while he waits for his turn. He’s wearing the genuine smile again, the manufactured one nowhere to be seen.

Phichit briefly meets Yuuri’s eyes, and he knows they’re thinking the same thing.

It’s a little odd, the childlike way Victor approaches things that they all grew up with. Like ice cream and video games. Phichit and Yuuri have wasted hours and hours playing this stupid game, yet Victor seems like he’s never laid eyes on anything like it before.

“How do you all have time to do things like this?” Victor asks. “Skating takes up such a huge part of every day.”

“You have to make the time,” Christophe says.

“Yeah, otherwise you’ll burn out,” Phichit says. “Then skating won’t be fun anymore either. Hey Victor, do you want to play this next round against Yuuri?”

“Really? Can I?” Victor has grown much friendlier towards Phichit since the arm-hugging incident—a little more so every time he’s blatantly pushed Yuuri in Victor’s direction. After this last invitation, Phichit has clearly earned Victor’s gratitude.

But not everyone is as comfortable with the arrangement. Too shy to protest, Yuuri lets out a helpless whimper that’s immediately lost in the din of the arcade.

Though his thoughts are still a bit sluggish, he’s aware that he’s not nearly as drunk as he was when he walked out of the club. His confidence is draining away just as fast. If he doesn’t consume more alcohol soon, he’s in serious danger of sobering up. But strangely, he’s not in the bathroom bawling his head off yet...

He can feel it, though. Looming inside of him.

The breathless anxiety. The choking depression.

The growing shadow in the back of Yuuri’s mind wants to drag him under until he drowns, but something unnamed makes him stubborn enough to resist the pull. Maybe it’s the way Victor smiles at him when he takes his place on the game platform beside Yuuri, or maybe he’s just tired of feeling this way. But it’s enough to make him tell his anxiety, _Get away from me_. _I’ve let you ruin enough tonight. You’re not taking this from me, too._

“What do I get if I beat you?” Victor says while he pushes up the sleeves of his shirt. It’s warm enough in the arcade that they’ve all shed their coats. “Do I win a prize?”

“I hate to break this to you,” Yuuri says, “but you’re not going to beat me.”

Sure, he might be on the brink of a nervous breakdown, but that hasn’t changed the fact that he hates to lose. He can’t claim he came even a little close to beating Victor Nikiforov at the Grand Prix Final, but Yuuri has no doubt that he’s about to annihilate him at _Dance, Dance Revolution._

“How about a second date as a prize?” Phichit calls out, and he doesn’t even have the decency to stop grinning when Yuuri rears around to glare daggers at him.

“Okay,” Victor says. “I like that idea. I’m in.”

And Yuuri pretty much stops breathing at that point.

His brain is still fuzzy enough from the alcohol that he wonders if he’s misunderstood somehow. Even with the dancing and the hand-holding that followed, he’s having trouble wrapping his mind around the insinuation that tonight might be a _first_ date. Surely not...

“What about you, Yuuri?” Christophe says. “What do you want from Victor if you win?”

Yuuri’s mouth hangs open for several seconds. Everyone is looking at him. Even the arcade game is beeping an impatient request for him to make up his mind, but he has no idea what to say.

Well...that’s not entirely true.

If he’s honest with himself, he knows exactly what he wants from Victor Nikiforov. It’s been a dream of Yuuri’s for a long time. Gathering what little courage he has remaining, he looks at Victor and says, “If I win, I want a skating lesson from you. A real one. In person, on the ice.”

Victor’s eyes glitter with amusement. “Sure. But you already won that at our last dance-off in Sochi. Remember?”

“Not...really?” Yuuri admits.

“How about if you win this time, you let me take you out for katsudon?”

Yet again, Yuuri is at a loss for words. Win or lose, he’s already got exactly what he wants. Win or lose, this isn’t going to be the last time he sees Victor Nikiforov.

“O-okay,” he says. “I’d like that.”

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, after most of the establishments in the city have shut their doors for the night, the four young skaters decide they’re not quite ready to part ways.

There’s a reluctance in all of them to say goodbye, especially since they don’t know when they’ll see each other again. The clock is now against them, and every second that ticks by brings them closer and closer to the end of what has turned out to be an amazing night.

Since Yuuri won the dance-off against Victor, they bring his prize (katsudon takeout) back to Christophe and Victor’s hotel suite because it’s much bigger than the tiny room Phichit and Yuuri are sharing at a different hotel across town. It’s an extravagant set of rooms that must have cost a ridiculous amount of money. There are two private bedrooms, as well as a living space with couches, a place for dining, and a glass door that leads outside to a balcony that’s covered in snow.

The four of them sit on the floor around a low, traditional Japanese table and devour the katsudon. Since they’re already full after eating so much throughout the night, they didn’t order much food to bring with them to the hotel, but the katsudon is so good that it’s not long before every morsel of pork, egg, and rice has vanished.

“I changed my mind again,” Victor says, holding the tips of his chopsticks to his lips with a wistful look in his eyes. “ _That’s_ the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

“It’s better when it’s hot, right after it’s served,” Phichit says. “And homemade is always superior to any restaurant. Yuuri makes it for us sometimes back home in Detroit, and it’s _so good_.”

Yuuri stares down at the table, a little embarrassed. “My mom’s is still the best.”

“Ugh...too much food,” Christophe says. Every word is slurred. Out of the four of them, he drank the most tonight, and it’s finally caught up with him. He’s lying on his back on the ground with his arms spread wide, and he can’t seem to keep his eyes open anymore. “Victor, tell the room to stop spinning.”

With an affectionate smile pulling at one side of his mouth, Victor takes Christophe’s glasses off and sets them safely on the table. “I told it, Chris. I’m sure it will stop any minute now.”

Yuuri isn’t certain what he feels when he sees this exchange. It’s not jealousy exactly. More like insecurity. He’s a bit in awe of the easy friendship between Victor and Christophe. There’s no way Yuuri would ever feel that comfortable around someone like Victor.

It would be nice, though...to have someone take his glasses off like that. Yuuri falls asleep in his all the time. Smiling softly to himself, he continues pulling at a loose string on the sleeve of his shirt.

The cozy atmosphere and good food has them all relaxed. The heater hums in the background, and a silent snowfall can be seen through the windows. There’s a part of Yuuri that feels like he should suggest that he and Phichit return to their own hotel so that Christophe and Victor can get some rest, but the words die on his tongue every time he opens his mouth. Yuuri is just not ready to let go yet.

But before he knows it, Christophe is snoring, and even Phichit has dropped his head into his arms where they’re folded on the table. When his best friend’s eyes close and fail to reopen, Yuuri feels a small moment of panic grab hold of him. “Phichit-kun? You’re not falling asleep, are you?”

Phichit lets out a quiet hum but doesn’t move. It’s clear he doesn’t intend to.

Victor chuckles softly and says, “And then there were two...”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri says. “You probably want to go to sleep, too. Please kick us out if you—”

“Yuuri,” Victor says, a gentle smile in place. It’s the most genuine one Yuuri has seen yet. “It would make me very happy if you stayed. We’ve barely had a chance to talk, just the two of us.”

Flustered, Yuuri turns his face away to hide his embarrassment. He’s still scared of being this close to his idol, but there’s really nowhere to run at this point. And he isn’t sure if he wants to, even if he did have an easy escape...

He had a _really_ nice time tonight. He forgot what it felt like to be that carefree, and for some reason, he thinks Victor might be having the same kind of revelation.

“Let’s go sit on the couch,” Victor suggests. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”

Yuuri draws in a deep breath and calls upon every ounce of confidence he has left in his anxiety-riddled mind. It’s barely enough to get him to his feet, but he manages to follow Victor over to a loveseat that’s positioned near a large window. There, they sit—with Victor’s body angled toward Yuuri’s, one long arm draped across the back of the couch.

There’s no moonlight tonight. It’s obscured by the low winter clouds. Instead, it’s the twinkling lights of the city that Yuuri sees reflected on the surfaces all around him.

“Hi,” Victor says, his fingertips tracing the pattern on the cushion behind Yuuri’s shoulders.

Yuuri draws his knees up to his chest and says in soft reply, “Hi...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Would love to hear from you if you have time to leave a comment.


	6. Sapporo - part 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Soundtrack updated](http://borntomake.tumblr.com/post/160388139609/drive-by-proantagonist-a-victuuri-road-trip). A special “thank you” to the tumblr anon who reminded me of this song. I had it on in the background while I wrote.

 

The hotel room is still save for the sound of Phichit and Christophe’s breathing as they sleep, though the faint hum of traffic on the city streets below can also be heard through the poorly insulated walls. Hugging his knees to his chest, Yuuri turns his head to gaze through the window at the silently falling snow because he finds he’s too shy to look anywhere else. Even now, he’s struggling to wrap his mind around what’s happened. What’s _still_ happening.

He can feel Victor watching him from where he sits beside him on the loveseat. And good grief, what is Yuuri supposed to do with _that_?

Victor Nikiforov has a quiet power to him.

He’s compelling without him putting forth any effort at all, like a magnet drawing Yuuri outside of the places he likes to hide. It takes a great deal of effort not to stare.

The occasional nervous glance is enough to make Yuuri struggle with the deceptively simple task of sitting still. Victor’s elegant profile is lit up against the city lights—from the unearthly silver of his hair down to the sensuous set of his mouth. It’s like gazing at a painting and realizing that it’s...breathing. That it has thoughts, emotions, and the very first hints of worry lines. And it’s weird.

Yuuri has no idea how to start a conversation with someone like Victor but thankfully doesn’t have to. Out of the quiet comes the jingling of a collar, and a moment later, Victor’s dog comes trotting out of the bedroom. Yuuri’s mouth drops open. If Victor’s unexpected appearance tonight was a shock to him, laying eyes on his famous poodle for the first time is like a slap to the face.

_Vicchan._

The name and all the memories associated with it overwhelm Yuuri’s already feeble control on his emotions, and he has to sit up straight and put both feet flat on the ground to calm himself back down again. It’s been weeks since Vicchan passed away, but Yuuri still hasn’t taken the time to properly deal with the guilt and grief associated with his loss.

“Hey, you,” Victor says to his dog. “About time you woke up. Come say hello to Yuuri.”

Makkachin pauses to shake out her coat of brown, _café au lait_ curls and spare a disinterested sniff at the leftover takeout containers on the table. Then, ambling over wearing an open-mouthed doggy smile that anyone in possession of a soul could not possibly hope to resist, she noses affectionately into Victor’s outstretched hand.

Yuuri’s tension melts away in an instant, and even though there are tears stinging the corners of his eyes, he finds himself fighting the urge to smile. He can’t help it. Even now, he adores dogs. Especially poodles.

Especially _this_ poodle. It’s like meeting another celebrity.

“Her name is Makkachin,” Victor says as his dog turns his attention to Yuuri and promptly barrels into his personal space.

 _I know_ , Yuuri wants to say. Out loud, he manages to stammer, “She’s so big...” Much bigger than Vicchan, who was just a miniature poodle. Yuuri laughs as Makkachin puts both paws on his thighs and moves in to lick his face. “And friendly. Hi, there...”

“I think she likes you,” Victor says, grinning as he scruffs the dog’s freshly-groomed coat, his long fingers a breath away from Yuuri’s trembling ones. The perfumed scent of expensive dog shampoo wafts into the air, and Yuuri is willing to bet Makkachin’s grooming routine is far more detailed and refined than his own. “Do you have any pets?”

Yuuri swallows the lump in his throat but keeps smiling in spite of it. “No. But I’ve, um...I’ve always been a big fan of poodles.”

“Makkachin’s been with me since I was a teenager. Don’t tell Chris, but this giant slobber-pup was my best friend first.”

“Was it hard to bring her on the plane?”

“Not at all. She doesn’t have to go in a crate or anything like that. I have special paperwork that allows her to ride in the main cabin with me.”

Not wanting to pry into the details of Victor’s personal life, Yuuri puzzles over this information silently. It never occurred to him that Makkachin might be a service dog – which, of course, begs the question of why Victor needs one.

Definitely none of his business.

“My coach, Yakov, encouraged me to get him,” Victor continues, ruffling Makkachin’s fur until the dog cranes her head back to lick at Victor’s chin. Laughing, he says, “Best decision I ever made.”

As Victor continues to dote over his dog, smiling and humming with genuine affection, Yuuri catches himself staring again. If there’s anything hotter than seeing an attractive man act so gentle and loving with an animal, he isn’t sure what it might be.

Makkachin eventually settles down between them on the loveseat with her head resting on Victor’s lap and her warm, furry rear-end on Yuuri’s. In spite of the emotions he’s still dealing with, Yuuri welcomes the intrusion. The pain he feels over Vicchan’s loss is still raw, but it’s kind of nice to be around a dog again...

“I’ve been trying to spend more time with her lately,” Victor says. “She’s getting up there in age. I don’t often bring her to competitions because she’d be by herself in the hotel room too much, so when I have a day off, I try to involve her in whatever I’m doing as much as possible.”

Yuuri puzzles over this information as well. Victor shouldn’t have much time off at this point in the season. He has the European Championships coming up, followed by Worlds and all the press conferences and sponsorship opportunities that normally accompany such high-profile events.

“Do you travel a lot between competitions?” Yuuri asks – because he still isn’t certain what Victor is doing in Japan. Surely his coach isn’t okay with this.

“Hardly ever, though Chris dragged me to a few places in Europe last summer during the off-season. He’s always telling me I work too hard.” Victor returns his arm to the back of the couch so that he can stare out at the city through the window behind them. The falling snow paints moving shadows across his porcelain features, and with a wistful sigh, he says, “I had so much fun tonight. Makes me never want to go back. Lately, I’ve been...I don’t know. I guess I needed a break from routine. It’s been a long year.” He chuckles sadly and smiles. “And the season isn’t even over yet.”

Yuuri’s mouth goes dry. He looks down at his hands, which are still running through Makkachin’s curls, and wonders if Victor remembers that Yuuri’s own skating season ended tonight after that mortifying failure of a performance. Probably not. Victor doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would intentionally hurt someone’s feelings.

But that doesn’t change the fact that it still hurts...

“Did I say something wrong?” Victor asks, his voice soft with uncertainty. His eyes have shifted from the window to study Yuuri’s face instead.

Yuuri sits up straighter in an attempt to regain some composure. “No, no. It’s not you.”

“But it’s something. I can barely get you to talk to me...”

Yuuri’s blush burns a path all the way up to the tips of his ears. God, this is awkward. Why is he so _bad_ at this? “I’m really sorry. I promise, it isn’t you. I guess I’m still trying to shake off what happened tonight.”

Victor’s eyebrows pinch together in the middle. He doesn’t understand what Yuuri means.

“The competition,” Yuuri clarifies.

“Oh...”

It’s Victor’s turn to go quiet, his bright-eyed inquisitiveness retreating into something more cautious. He waits, leaving room for Yuuri to keep talking if he wants to.

“I _really_ hate that you saw me skate like that.” Yuuri’s smile takes on a rueful edge. “Twice now.”

Victor studies him a while longer before responding. “Why does it matter what I think?”

The question makes Yuuri want to laugh. Is he serious? Victor Nikiforov has been the most important name in competitive figure skating for the better part of the last decade. It would be difficult to find a skater out there who _wouldn’t_ care what a living legend thought of their performance. But since Yuuri is much, much too shy to answer the question by explaining what a profound impact Victor has had on his life, he says, “I’m a better skater than that.”

A tiny smile warms Victor’s expression. “I believe you. I’d love for you to show me one day.”

The arm Victor has resting on the back of the couch is incredibly distracting. Though the two of them aren’t touching by any means, Yuuri can feel Victor’s warmth permeating the fabric of his borrowed shirt. It’s like the heat of summer sunshine falling upon his neck and shoulders - a trick of the mind, because he’s actually sitting in a dimly-lit hotel room with the smell of snow tickling his nose.

Were Yuuri’s self-confidence not at an all-time low, he might wonder if Victor’s actions were suggestive of something other than the pursuit of friendship. Even after a night of dancing and the occasional hand-holding, Yuuri can’t help but wonder if he’s somehow misunderstood. Why on earth would someone like Victor Nikiforov want to put his arm around Yuuri?

Hanging his head, Yuuri asks in a small voice, “Victor...why are you here?”

“Well...to see you, of course. I thought I made that obvious.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Victor says, “You really don’t think very much of yourself, do you?”

If Yuuri’s face gets any hotter, the lenses of his glasses are in serious danger of fogging over. He briefly pushes the frames up so that he can swipe cool fingers across his burning cheeks. “That’s kind of my problem in general. On and off the ice. I lack confidence.”

Victor frowns and tilts his head to one side. “You have plenty of confidence when you dance.”

“The false kind, maybe. But I can’t exactly go into a skating competition drunk.”

“True, but you shouldn’t have to. Alcohol just brings temporary relief from your worries. Real confidence is a belief in yourself. It doesn’t go away when you sober up.”

“Yeah, I definitely don’t have that.”

“Hmm. Why is that, do you think?”

“Would you feel confident after embarrassing yourself like I did?”

“Discouraged, maybe. But a disappointing performance doesn’t have anything to do with your worth as a person. It doesn’t mean you lack talent as a skater either.”

Yuuri knows this. He’s heard variations of the same sentiment countless times from teachers, coaches, and friends. Moreover, he’s even _offered_ this same advice to other people. But since recognizing his own self-worth has always been more difficult for him than extoling the talents of others, Victor’s words bounce right off Yuuri like he didn’t hear them at all.

“Tell me about your current coach,” Victor says. “What’s his name again?”

“Celestino Cialdini.”

“Do you not feel supported by him?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. He’s not doing anything wrong. The problem is me.”

“I’m not trying to imply that he’s bad at his job, but is he the _right_ coach for you? Does he make you feel confident?”

Chewing on his lower lip, Yuuri thinks about the way Celestino tried to comfort him at the Kiss and Cry in front of all those cameras. Except Yuuri hadn’t wanted to be comforted. It makes him feel weak. Humiliated. Like he needs to be babied and coddled when he’s a twenty-three-year-old man who’s supposed to be representing the finest his country has to offer in competitive skating. “Celestino tries his best. But no. Not really.”

“Is he your choreographer, too?”

Yuuri nods. “He’s done my programs for the last three years.”

“Do you want my honest opinion?” Victor says and waits for Yuuri to nod again before he continues. “Neither one of your routines play up your strengths. The choreography is too safe. The whole thing feels timid, so it’s no wonder you don’t feel confident when you’re skating it. Whoever put it together didn’t feel confident when they created it.”

Victor Nikiforov has just ripped months and months of Yuuri’s hard work to pieces, but strangely, it doesn’t make him feel any worse than he already does. Victor’s feedback is more like an answer to a question that Yuuri hadn’t even thought to ask.

And he likes that Victor isn’t talking to him like he’s a weakling. Yuuri likes that a lot.

“What should I do?”

“Consider finding a new coach. Or, at the very least, a choreographer who can give you a proper challenge and help you reach your full potential. I mean...I could do that for you, if you want. I choreograph my own programs, you know.”

 _I know_ , Yuuri wants to say again. But there’s something vulnerable about the way Victor offers his time and energy, like he knows he’s going to be told no - and it’s confusing, to say the least.

Yuuri has lost count of the number of times Victor has brought up the subject of coaching with him tonight. Now he’s offering his skills as a choreographer. If Yuuri didn’t know any better, he might think Victor was trying to hint at his interest in sticking around. “I couldn’t ask you to do that. But thank you. That’s incredibly generous.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”

“But...aren’t you competing next season? How would you have enough time to...?”

Victor lets out a dry sort of laugh that sounds like it hurts a little coming out, and Yuuri’s eyes widen with alarm. _Oh, no_ , he thinks and can only hope his heart isn’t about to be broken by news of Victor Nikiforov’s retirement.

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Yuuri,” Victor says. “You must think I’m crazy for coming all the way to Japan out of the blue. Have you ever felt lost, even though you’re standing in the exact same place you always have?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says without hesitation. “I know exactly how that feels. I’m so sorry.”

They stare at each other without speaking. Then Yuuri’s eyelashes flutter and close, and he lowers his chin almost to his chest...because Victor Nikiforov has reached out to touch him.

It’s nothing too forward. He just brushes Yuuri’s hair behind his ear so that he can see his face better, but Victor lets his fingers linger there. “I guess that’s the real reason I came to Japan,” he says in a quiet voice that sounds like velvet caressing the air. “If it’s true that I’m lost, I can’t find my way again if I don’t pick a direction to start walking in.”

Yuuri has no idea what Victor is saying. He might as well be speaking another language because Yuuri’s entire world has narrowed to the feel of warm fingertips alighting upon his skin and hair. It’s all he can do not to leap off the couch like a startled cat and retreat somewhere safe – like maybe America or at the very least, the hotel bathroom – but the memory of Phichit’s earlier words stop him.

_Yuuri, if you miss this chance, you are never going to forgive yourself._

Drawing in a fortifying breath, Yuuri opens his eyes to silently stare back at Victor.

“You know,” Victor says with an uncertain smile, “normally I’m not this bad at reading people. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what you’re thinking.”

Yuuri’s pulse is tripping all over itself in an effort to deal with the adrenalin pouring into his system by the bucket-load. “I...I guess I was thinking that you’re just as nice in person as your fans always say.”

“Oh?” Victor’s tone turns teasing, and though he drops his arm back down to the couch, he adjusts his position so that he’s sitting closer than before. “What else do they say about me? My fans, I mean.”

Yuuri’s lips quirk into a smile. Victor’s fans say he always takes the time to sign autographs and pose for pictures, even when he’s running late, and he’s also known for giving away the many flowers he receives after his performances, usually to someone who could do with a bit of encouragement or cheering up. He visits sick kids in the hospital and donates money to charity. Once, a young Russian figure skater posted on social media that the only thing that would cheer her up after her beloved cat’s death was for Victor Nikiforov to come to her very first performance. So he showed up.

Victor seems to have an innate talent for making people happy. But as much as his fans adore him, they also say his kindness sometimes strikes them as contrived. Like he only does those things for the publicity.

There’s a part of Yuuri that has always feared finding out his idol isn’t a good person, but though it’s definitely true that Victor is different from what he expected, Yuuri thinks he might like him even more now. There’s an innocent sweetness to the real Victor Nikiforov, and that’s not an easy thing to manufacture. It makes Yuuri feel strangely protective of him.

“They say mostly good things about you,” Yuuri teases back. “Mostly.”

Victor laughs. “Clearly you’re not talking to the right people.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character.”

Yuuri’s words bring about another lull in the conversation, but the way they look at each other carries far more meaning than anything they’ve said thus far.

Victor’s smile turns wistful as he traces the seam of the couch cushion with his index finger. “I wish you didn’t have to leave tomorrow. I thought we’d have more time.”

“When are you flying back to Russia?”

“No idea. I didn’t buy a return ticket. Maybe I’ll follow you back to Detroit instead.” Victor says it with a little laugh, but when he quiets, there’s that strange vulnerability hanging in the air again.

It’s not the first time he’s joked about coming to America, and Yuuri’s starting to notice a trend in the way Victor speaks. It’s like he voices the things he really wants in a joking manner because he doesn’t know how else to ask.

_What is going on with you, Victor?_

“Tell me about Detroit,” Victor says. “I’ve never been there.”

“Ever seen the movie _8 Mile_?”

Victor’s answering grin is adorable, and it gives Yuuri the boost of confidence he needs to keep talking.

“I’m just kidding. Well. Kind of. The city has its charm and a lot of history, but there are some rough parts. It’s like a ghost of the city it used to be, in a lot of ways.”

“What happened to it?”

“The decline of the American automotive industry, mostly. People left the city when the jobs went away.”

“Do you like living there?”

Yuuri shrugs. “I guess I find the vibe pretty interesting at times. There’s so much wide-open space in middle America, but hardly anything seems built to last. You see the same fast food restaurants and gas stations on every street corner. There are abandoned skyscrapers and huge shopping malls that have shut down because everyone shops online now. Then there are the gentrified downtown neighborhoods that piss off the locals, and these gigantic, gaudy McMansions with two people living inside, when they’re big enough to house twenty. Oh, and they have Walmarts bigger than most airports, and they’re usually built right next door to the older, smaller Walmart they shut down and abandoned the week before. It’s a very surreal place to live.” Realizing how much he’s rambling on, Yuuri stops himself there. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I always end up talking too much when I drink.”

“I wouldn’t keep asking questions if I didn’t like the sound of your voice,” Victor points out with a leisurely wink. “You make the American Gothic aesthetic sound like an urban photographer’s dream. Where is Detroit exactly? I’m a bit clueless about the geography of the states.”

“It’s up at the top by the Great Lakes, if you know where those are. Kind of in the middle, but closer to the east coast than the west. Not far from Canada at all.”

Victor sighs. “There are so many places to see in the world. How do you even get started?”

“I guess you just pack your bags and start. That’s what I did when I went to Detroit. I needed a change.”

“Did it help?”

 _Not really_ , Yuuri thinks to himself. “For a little while, I guess. Maybe I’ve been there too long. I’m probably due for another change soon.”

“And what kind of change do you think you’re looking for?” Victor’s fingers brush lightly over Yuuri’s hand where it rests on Makkachin’s back.

It’s getting increasingly more difficult to dismiss the flirting as mere friendliness. Yuuri swallows and tries to think. “I...I don’t know. Something.”

There’s a pause. And then Victor asks, “Do you have a boyfriend, Yuuri?”

Yuuri stops breathing for several moments before releasing a shaky exhale.

“Or perhaps a girlfriend?” Victor adds, his voice more contemplative this time. His fingertips trace a slow path up and down the ridges of Yuuri’s knuckles. “I shouldn’t assume.”

“I... N-no. Neither.”

It’s not like him to answer questions about his love life, but Yuuri wasn’t lying when he said he talked too much when he drank. While he can hardly consider himself inebriated now, the alcohol still burning in his system has most assuredly made him more talkative and reckless than normal. He might as well have swallowed a truth serum, followed by a chaser of 100-proof liquid stupidity.

“Do you have something going on with Phichit? You seem much more at ease with him than you do with me.”

“Sorry... I’m just...”

“Shy?”

Yuuri isn’t nearly as shy as people seem to think. It’s not a matter of bashfulness. He just doesn’t want to impose his general worthlessness on other people. “Phichit and I are just friends.”

Victor’s hand rests fully on top of Yuuri’s now, fingers still moving against the delicate skin of his wrist. “And what would you like me to be to you? Another friend – or something else?”

If he keeps touching Yuuri in such a way, he fears Victor’s going to have to be the person that administers CPR to him. His touch radiates an electrical current of heat up the length of Yuuri’s arm, which then travels straight down into the core of his body. He feels flushed. Aroused. On edge.

His heart is beating much too fast...and it feels uncomfortably like the beginnings of a panic attack.

“Just be yourself,” Yuuri says, trying not to pant between the words. “Be Victor.”

Victor chuckles quietly. “I can do that.” He releases Yuuri’s hand and touches the bottom of his chin instead, coaxing him to look at him. “But what if what I really want to do is kiss you?”

Yuuri really does stop breathing this time.

Emotions pour through him that he barely understands, but he knows that none of them feel good. Jerking away, he gets awkwardly to his feet, all but dumping Makkachin on the couch in his haste to flee. “S-sorry. I...I think I need some air.”

Without looking back, Yuuri makes for the double, glass-paned doors that lead to a balcony overlooking the city. It’s a narrow space that juts out only a short distance from the building, leaving enough room for a pair of chairs, an ashtray on a low-profile end table, and very little else. The metal railing that encloses the balcony has a layer of undisturbed snow piled onto its surface, as do the chairs and concrete beneath Yuuri’s feet. There’s nowhere to sit. Nothing to lean against. And he’s wearing cheap, complimentary hotel slippers that will no doubt be soaked through and freezing in less than a minute.

Snow rains down upon Yuuri’s bowed head and bestows frozen kisses to the bare skin of his ears and neck. Hugging himself against the cold, he takes deep, heaving breaths that won’t seem to slow. Just when he thought this night couldn’t get any worse...

It’s all crashing down on him now. The whole night. Every fall on the ice. The bruises on his knees and the heels of his hands. The burning shame of all those eyes and cameras on him. Every advance from Victor that he can’t seem to reciprocate. Knowing he’s a failure in relationships just as much as in his career.

Knowing Victor Nikiforov is _right there_ , and tomorrow he’ll be gone.

Yuuri is _exhausted_. God, has he ever been this tired before? All around him, the city is lit up and smeared like a long-exposure photograph by the blur of his tears. There are millions of people out there, yet Yuuri feels like he’s the only one who isn’t normal.

“Yuuri?”

Victor has followed him out to the balcony, but Yuuri doesn’t dare turn around to face him, choosing instead to wipe frantically at his cheeks to dispose of the evidence of his emotion. “Are you making fun of me?” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

Behind him, Victor closes the balcony door. Then comes the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet as he moves closer. “What? Why would I do that?”

Shame churns in Yuuri’s stomach, and he already regrets opening his mouth. He knows he’s projecting his insecurities onto Victor’s actions. Yuuri _knows_. But the knowledge that he can’t even perceive reality correctly without distorting it into something else only makes him feel more deficient. “I’m sorry. I’m overreacting, I know. I...I’ll get my stuff and go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Victor says gently. “Listen, I’m really sorry I upset you. I never meant to—”

“You didn’t upset me.” Yuuri swipes away the tears as fast as they fall, but they refuse to stop. He _hates_ crying in front of other people. “Not the way you’re thinking, anyway. You’ve been so nice, and I keep messing everything up.”

Victor takes another cautious step closer, appearing in Yuuri’s tear-stained periphery. “What have you messed up? Yuuri, please tell me what’s wrong.”

Yuuri really shouldn’t have had so much to drink tonight...

It’s the last thought he has before something inside him _snaps_.

Suddenly the words are pouring out of his mouth faster than the tears can drip off his chin. “What’s _wrong_ is that I can’t do anything right. I have no idea why someone like you would even want to talk to me. My whole life, I’ve worked my ass off trying to be something more than I am, but all I’ve managed to do is let everyone down. I try _so fucking hard_ , but it’s never enough.

“I placed eleventh tonight, Victor. _Eleventh_. And I came in last place at the Grand Prix Final after scoring a hundred points lower than _you_. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked to catch up to you? I’ve looked up to you for more than half my life. I let my grades suffer in college and couldn’t even graduate on time because I practiced so much. I lost scholarships and put even more financial strain on my parents. I don’t even feel like I’m welcome in Hasetsu anymore because of how badly I’ve let my family down. They’ve supported me for years, and I don’t have anything to show for it.

“ _That’s_ why I don’t want to go home to see my family. _That’s_ why I didn’t want to meet you like this. It’s not because I don’t like you or want to know you better. You’re so nice. I can’t even believe how nice you are in person, and your skating inspires me more than you will ever know. But I didn’t want to meet you until I was on the same level as you. But that’s never going to happen, is it? Everyone expects me to retire now and I just...”

Yuuri trails off and pushes his fingers beneath his glasses to cover his eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t want to stop skating, but I don’t know how to keep going. I’m just so...so _inept_. I don’t even know how to let someone kiss me without shouting at them.”

Oh, _God_. He really is shouting at Victor.

But though Yuuri knows he should apologize for losing control, what he really feels is a profound sense of _relief_. Those emotions have festered inside him too long.

Shoulders sagging with weariness, he pulls his hands away from his eyes and lets his tear-speckled glasses fall back into place. He doesn’t want to look at Victor but forces himself to turn around. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.”

To his surprise, he finds Victor smiling at him. It’s a worried little smile, concern for Yuuri painted over every inch of it, but beneath it is a worn-out look of understanding.

“I don’t have any friends,” Victor says, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “My whole life, I’ve done nothing but skate. I don’t leave my apartment except to go to the rink. I don’t have fun. I’ve never dated anyone seriously. I’ve never even made any lasting friendships, except for this one pushy Swiss fellow that never stops texting me, even when I forget to reply for weeks at a time. The only real relationship I have now is with my audience, and they’re the ficklest bunch you’ve ever known.

“The pressure of having to constantly reinvent myself is exhausting. When I was a child, I was told I needed to stand out from everyone else if I wanted to be noticed. So I grew my hair long, and they said I looked like a girl. So I cut it off, and then they said I forgot who I am. My senior debut was labeled too immature, but when I tried incorporating more adult themes, they called me pretentious. Every season, I take criticism to heart and change. Only now, I’ve tried so hard to surprise people and maintain their interest that I feel like a circus monkey. This season I even wore a ringleader costume for my Free Skate, but no one seemed to catch the irony.

“I used to love skating, Yuuri, but I’ve reinvented myself for everyone’s amusement so many times that I’ve forgotten who I am. I’m so burned out that the idea of going back to Russia right now and facing my coach makes me want to crumple to the ground and never move again. But the problem is my audience is still my only source of human interaction. They’re the only people that I accept any semblance of love or affection from, as shallow and indirect as it might be. I’ve given everything to them, but who’s going to be there for me after I retire? And like you, I’m hearing the word ‘retirement’ and my name paired together far too often these days.

“Chris thinks I’m depressed and maybe he’s right. Maybe I _know_ he’s right but haven’t wanted to admit it to myself because that means I’ll have to do something about it. Maybe it’s not normal to drop thousands of rubles on a plane ticket to Japan just to give someone flowers and ask them for a second dance. But the thing is, Yuuri, I’m lonely.” Victor’s eyes have started to glitter with tears. “I’m really fucking lonely. And when I met you in Sochi and saw how sad and remote you were, I thought maybe you needed a friend, too. We had fun together, didn’t we? When we danced. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had that much fun.”

Yuuri has been staring in mute astonishment this entire time.

But as unexpected as this confession is, a missing puzzle piece clicks into place in his mind. He’s always felt the underlying emotion in Victor’s skating. It’s part of the reason Yuuri was drawn to him in the first place. Even when Victor was a teenager, his graceful movements spoke of an exquisite kind of sorrow that resonated far too well with Yuuri. Now he realizes the source of it.

“All of that to say,” Victor continues, “the answer is no. I wasn’t making fun of you when I said I wanted to kiss you.”

For the first time in Victor’s company tonight, Yuuri doesn’t succumb to a blush. He no longer feels quite so nervous around this perfect specimen of human achievement. What he feels is that he’s finally met someone who understands. Who needs someone else to understand.

And it makes him _ache_ to think that for all these years, he’s drawn so much inspiration from this man, yet Victor has received so little back...

Stepping forward, Yuuri throws his arms around Victor’s neck and hugs him with all the fierceness he can manage. “You don’t have to be lonely anymore,” he says, squeezing Victor tight. “Of course, I’ll be your friend.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, but then Victor’s arms go around him, too. As they embrace, both of them are sniffling and shivering from the cold. Though Victor seems too overcome by emotion to speak at first, eventually he draws in a trembling breath and says, “We’re going to get you through this rough patch, Yuuri. I promise. You have so much more worth than you realize. Whatever you need from me to help you find your purpose again, it’s yours.”

Yuuri’s face crumples with emotion, eyes brimming with tears. “Likewise.”

Strange. He always knew he was going to hit rock bottom one of these days. What he didn’t expect was for the landing to be this soft and kind.

***

When Phichit stirs and wakes the next morning, he has trouble remembering where he is.

The winter morning chill bites the air in spite of the heater laboring away overhead, but it’s warm and comfortable beneath the thick feather duvet. Phichit cracks open an eye to peek at his surroundings. The hotel bedroom is dark, but bright sunshine outlines the heavy, black-out curtains that stretch across the far wall. Dust-motes turn to gold as they drift lazily across the thin beams of sunshine.

Beside him in the bed, sprawled out and snoring, is Christophe Giacometti, and Phichit has a vague memory of his new friend waking him up in the middle of the night and suggesting they find somewhere more comfortable to sleep than the floor. Exhausted from a combination of jetlag and overindulgence in Sapporo’s glittering nightlife, they’d fallen into the queen-size bed in one of the two bedrooms and dreamed the rest of the night away.

It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning when that happened, but Yuuri was still awake then. He and Victor had been sitting on the loveseat in the common room in a deep discussion. They barely broke away from it long enough to wish their two best friends goodnight.

Phichit wonders where Yuuri is now and gets out of bed with the intention of finding him. As fun as last night was, worry has again crept into Phichit’s thoughts. He wonders how Yuuri is going to handle having to say goodbye to Victor today.

When Phichit makes it to the common room, yawning and combing fingers through his disheveled hair, he’s surprised to find Yuuri _still_ awake and sitting on the loveseat. But much, much more surprising than that is the fact that Victor Nikiforov’s head is in Yuuri’s lap. Phichit comes to an abrupt halt and stares at them.

Though Victor is fast asleep, he seems to unconsciously lean into Yuuri’s hand, which rests on the back of his head, fingers absently stroking the silvery hair. Morning light has softened Yuuri’s features and set them aglow, and when he meets Phichit’s eyes, he offers a tired smile as a greeting.

“So,” Phichit says. His gaze shifts to the floor, where a giant brown poodle is slumbering beside Yuuri’s feet. Where on earth did a poodle come from? “Last night kind of took some unexpected turns, huh?”

Yuuri releases a tired huff of a laugh. “You can say that again.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Tired but...better than I was. Victor and I talked for most of the night. He fell asleep maybe an hour ago.”

Since when did Katsuki Yuuri refer to Victor Nikiforov in such a casual manner, like he was a close friend instead of someone untouchable? That was new.

“Sounds like you two really hit it off,” Phichit says.

Though Yuuri doesn’t respond, he looks down at Victor’s head in his lap and smiles. It’s a shy, private kind of smile – something he’s probably not even aware he’s revealed to anyone else – and again, Phichit feels a pang of worry. Yuuri finally looks like he’s experiencing some relief from the dark mood that’s plagued him for so long, and Phichit does not want to be the person who has to tell his best friend he has a flight to catch in a few hours.

“Listen,” Phichit says. “There’s nothing that says we have to go home today. What if we call the airline and see if our tickets can be moved to tomorrow?”

“No, it’s okay,” Yuuri says. “He’s coming with us.”

“...Huh? Who is?”

Yuuri blushes and lets his bangs fall over his face to hide the moment of embarrassment. “Victor and I did a lot of talking last night, and...he’s coming with us to Detroit. He was going to call his travel agent last night but wanted to wait until Chris wakes up to see if he wants to come.”

Phichit’s surprise lasts only a moment or two. But then bits and pieces of last night’s conversations surface in his memory, and he finds he’s really not that surprised at all. It’s not just Yuuri who seems to be having a rough time of it lately. Something is going on with Victor, too. Christophe has hinted at it several times, and judging from the way Yuuri is protectively cradling Victor’s head now, Phichit is willing to bet his best friend got some insight into the problem.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Yuuri says. “It’s just something he needs to do right now. For his own wellbeing.”

“Why would I mind? I think it’s a great idea.”

Yuuri’s smile resurfaces, this time touched with growing excitement. “I mean, it’s not the most ideal time of year. He’s still going to have to train, but I figured he could come skate at our rink.”

Phichit is starting to get excited now, too. “I’m gonna go wake Chris up now and talk to him. How amazing would it be to have both of them visit?”

Shifting his gaze down to the man sleeping in his lap, Yuuri moves his fingers in Victor’s hair and says, “Pretty damn amazing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief, the emotions in this chapter were difficult to write. Did any of that make sense?
> 
> Some notes on Makkachin: She’s technically an “emotional support” dog in this story. Not a full-fledged service dog. (Yes, there’s a difference, but both can travel with their owners in airplanes.)
> 
> And to be honest, the only reason I included this in the story is because I hate writing about Makkachin traveling in a crate in the bottom of a plane. It makes me sad, so she’s officially been bumped up to first class.
> 
> The idea is that Yakov recognized that young Victor had a deep-seated need for companionship and helped arrange for Makkachin to come live with him. Google was not helpful when I tried to figure out if such things exist in Russia, but I’m going with it either way. The way I see it, this is a fictional world, so why can’t there be fictional Russian emotional support dogs living in it?
> 
> I swear, the “roadtrip” part of this story will come into play soon.


End file.
